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'>”<’’ ‘TTi-’ ^0"’ 







' THE 

SHORELESS SEA 


BY 

MOLUE PANTER-DOWNES 


** Fate is a sea without shore.” 

Swinburne 

Many waters cannot quench Love, 
Neither can the floods drown it . . . 

For Love is strong as Death—” 

The Song of Solomon 


G.P.Putnam’s Sons 

^^ewYorlt & London 

‘R.nickerbockzr Pms 

1924 








3 







Copyright, 1924 
by 


/ 


G. P. Putnam's So&s 




Made in the United States of America 


' -7 1924'' 

*''1 

N'"" • 

©C1A792289 

... . ^ M ^ 



2)cDicateO to 


MY DARLING DADDY 

MAJOR EDWARD MARTIN PANTER-DOWNES 

AND 

HIS BROTHER OFFICERS AND MEN 
OF THE 2ND BATTALION ROYAL IRISH REGIMENT 
.. WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF MONS 

August, 1914 
* * * 

. You’ve leapt the golden stile, 

And wave beyond the stars that all is well . . . 

And we may know that it is well with you. 

Among the chosen few. 

Among the very brave, the very true.” 

Maurice Baring. 












CONTENTS 


PART I 
ESCAPE 

CHAPTER 

I. —Deirdre and Guy 
II. —Empty. 

III. —^Aunt Vi. 

IV. —Quest. 

V. —Deirdre and Terence 

PART II 

MANY WATERS . . . 
VI. —The Moving Finger . 

VII. —Courage. 

VIII. —The Divine Comedy . 

IX. —“The Splendour and the Pain’’ 
X. —The Great Pretend . 

XL —Straws. 


a • 3 

. 44 

. 67 

. . 104 

• 135 


• 173 

. 197 
. 236 
. 248 

o 283 
. 302 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 



PAGE 

XII .—Belonging . 

. 

• 

• 335 

XIII. —Happiness . 

. 

• 

• 354 

XIV. —'‘Love is Strong as 

Death” . 

, 

. 381 


THE SHORELESS SEA 

PART I 


ESCAPE 





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CHAPTER I 


DEIRDRE AND GUY 

I 

The sunlight flickered through the leaves and 
blossoms of a fruit tree outside the window, making 
grotesque shadows that danced on the pale grey walls. 
Dimly there floated up through the open window the 
sound of Olivia practising, with the loud pedal down, 
in the drawing-room. From the direction of the 
orchard came the ring of voices—Howard’s raised 
angrily, and then Roly’s shriller tones. The woman 
in the bed closed her eyes fretfully, and frowned. 

It was a wonderful bed—all gilt mouldings and 
delicate spirals, with four fat, rose-wreathed cherubs 
who, in the tips of their plump fingers, upheld a 
canopy of pale green silk. A wonderful bed but not 
more wonderful than the woman who lay back with 
closed eyes on its lace-edged pillows. She seemed to 
fit in with the old French bed—its flowery, simpering 
cupids, its elegant curves. One could imagine a fine 
lady—a Madame Pompadour, perhaps, or a Du Barry 
—lying in it drinking her chocolate of a morning, or, 
charmingly be-wigged and be-rouged, receiving her 


3 


4 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


friends and adorers. Here, then, was her modern 
counterpart, and surely no fairer or finer lady had 
ever slept beneath the pale green canopy. 

Cynthia Bellamy was forty, but in a kindly light 
and charming surroundings she managed to look a 
girl in her twenties. She made a delightful picture 
lying there, and at the back of her mind she was com¬ 
fortably, serenely conscious of it, like a cat basking 
in the warmth of the sun. She shifted a little on her 
pillows, so as to avoid creasing the skin beneath her 
chin. She was inordinately proud of her chin, al¬ 
though worried about a sort of looseness which was 
beginning to show at the sides; also of her skin, 
which, under hours of daily massaging and creaming, 
had retained the warm apricot bloom and softness of 
its first beauty. Over her nightgown of finest lawn 
and lace she wore a loose peignoir —a thing of palest 
rose satin and soft swansdown, which, as she was well 
aware, became her vastly. A dainty white wicker tray 
lay on the little table beside her, cheek by jowl with 
a cut-glass bottle of eau-de-Cologne, and a French 
novel in a yellow paper cover. Scattered all over the lace 
and satin counterpane was the morning’s correspond¬ 
ence— 2, bill from her dressmaker’s (perhaps that ex¬ 
plained the frown), an invitation or two, and a letter 
from her married sister. A little breeze that roamed 
in at the open window blew one of the letters off the 
bed—it lay like a pale mauve leaf on the grey carpet. 

Just for a space content returned to Mrs. Bellamy’s 
mind. Remembering that frowning tended to bring 
lines, and wrinkles, she composed her face to a charm- 


DEIRDRE AND GUY 


5 


ing placidity. Soothing thoughts laid cool hands over 
her jangled nerves. There was a new frock that 
Madeline had promised she should have without fail 
to-day. It was intended for the Liscarneys’ garden- 
party on Thursday. As Mrs. Bellamy thought of it 
she smiled—a little, sleek, contented smile that was 
almost a purr. Clothes were her god. She was a 
clever woman, and upon her clothes she lavished 
the full powers of concentration and thought that 
she possessed—line, colour, texture—each of these she 
studied inside out. In her own way she was an artist, 
having the true creative instinct, and eye for a subtle 
or bizarre blending of colours. 

This particular creation was to be pale green—she 
had discovered that this shade brought out the tawny 
glints in her thick hair and the dark softness of her 
fine eyes—^the simplest, demurest, most .artfully art¬ 
less thing that could be seen. With it was to go a 
floppy, fine straw hat, lined with the exact shade of 
faintest pink which should cast a becoming glow over 
her skin- 

She closed her eyes again, pleasantly soothed. Peace 
pervaded her soul. She began to plan a creation for 
a new tea-gown—she fancied something filmy and 
black—with perhaps a bizarre touch of mandarin blue 
to give an unexpected shock—like a jazz band playing 
in Westminster Abbey- 

Suddenly and rudely her peace was shattered—the 
voices from the orchard had ceased, but now they 
rang out again close at hand. A skurrying of feet, 
scraping on the gravel outside her window, Roly’s 




6 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


voice whooping in triumph and derision, Howard s 
uplifted in execration—‘You little brute! You young 
devil! Wait till I catch you, that’s all! Gimme my 
mashie—d’you hear?” The sounds of a scuffle and 
then a yell from Roly. At the same time Olivia from 
the drawing-room started to play the scale of E major, 
leaving out the G sharp. It was more than Mrs. 
Bellamy could stand. 

She stretched out her hand and rang the bell for 
her maid. She rang twice, sharply, and then, her 
mouth folding tightly, a third time without result. 
But just as her hand was stretching out for the fourth 
time the door opened, and Deirdre Bellamy came in. 

It was hard to realize that the woman in the gilt 
bed was the mother of this tall young creature. Mrs. 
Bellamy herself refused to remember the fact, and, 
save for a few minutes a day, seldom saw her. Cer¬ 
tainly no love was lost between these two—^there was 
no strong tie between Cynthia Bellamy and any one of 
her children. Roly was her favourite—^with his face 
clean he was anyway picturesque, and he was only 
eight. Whereas Deirdre was seventeen—ridiculous. 
Mrs. Bellamy, replying on one occasion to a weak and 
feeble protest from her husband, had said: “Oh yes, 
I know that I ought to take her round with me, but I 
should look absurd with a great gawky girl to drag 
about. Beside, she’s quite happy at home, and 
she looks after Roly for me.” Whereat Mr. Bellamy 
had given in, as he always did, and Deirdre had con¬ 
tinued to fulfill the role of unpaid nursery governess. 

As she advanced slowly forward, two thoughts 


DEIRDRE AND GUY 


7 


struck Mrs. Bellamy simultaneously, like two well- 
aimed blows. One was, “She’s growing up.” One 
other was, “She’s beautiful.” It seemed as if she 
had never really seen her daughter until that minute, 
and she was literally staggered by what she saw. 

Deirdre Bellamy was tall and almost boyishl}- 
slender. Her old, shabby, over-short cotton frock 
revealed long, slender legs, and round, sun-bumt arms, 
the tan of which caused her mother an inward shudder. 
She had a long, swinging plait of lustreless, dead 
black hair, having in it none of Mrs. Bellamy’s glancing 
red lights, and a flawless, warm white skin, that seemed 
to have the smooth, matt surface of a magnolia petal. 
The mouth was large but finely cut, with delicate, 
rather disdainfully arched red lips. But it was the eyes 
which gave life and beauty to the strangely arresting 
young face. Set beneath arched black brows they 
were wide apart and long in shape, in colour an ex¬ 
traordinarily clear, translucent green, that with the 
black lashes and clear white skin, produced an almost 
startling effect. They were like twin lakes, in whose 
clear green depths glimmered a single drowned star— 

Mrs. Bellamy was startled. She also experienced a 
keen, absurd, raging anger. She sat up in bed, sending 
all the letters on the counterpane in a fluttering shower 
to the carpet. 

“Where’s Marie?” she asked fretfully. “I rang 
three times and she never came.” 

“I don’t know,” said Deirdre tranquilly. “Do you 
want anything?” 

She advanced to the foot of the bed, and stood 


8 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


looking at her mother, taking in everything—the dainty 
lace cap on the dark head, the furious dark eyes. She 
also noted, with the careless cruelty inseparable from 
Youth that two deep lines were beginning to show on 
either side of the beautiful mouth. Cynthia Bellamy 
felt the intense gaze and said crossly: 

“For heaven’s sake don’t stare at me like that! 
Don’t you know that it’s rude to stare?” 

Deirdre calmly looked away—she was used to her 
mother’s fluctuating moods. She cast an appreciative 
glance round the bedroom. On the rare—usually 
stolen—occasions that she entered her mother’s room, 
she never failed to feast her beauty-loving little soul 
upon the wonders of it, its pale grey walls and carpet, 
spring-green hangings, and, most intriguing of all, the 
old gilt bed with its almost apologetic air of past 
glories, its fat cupids, its faint fragrance of patchouli 
and powder, the click of little red heels, and the rustle 
of silk. . . . The sunlight glanced on the tortoiseshell 
and gold fittings of the big dressing-table, and touched 
a crystal bowl of forget-me-nots with a golden finger. 
A scarlet kimono flung over a chair lay like a pool of 
blood on the carpet. 

Deirdre gazed hungrily about her. With all her 
heart she adored beauty—of line, of colour, of sound. 
She had a half-sensual craving for colours—^warm 
oranges and passionate scarlets that made something 
in her stir queerly in response, or the gentler, subtler 
tones of lilac or old rose or deep, translucent green 
like the depths of a still lake. Once, as a child, she 
had stolen into her mother’s green and gilt room and 


DEIRDRE AND GUY 


9 


opened the door of the huge wardrobe with its great 
plate-glass door. In it had hung what seemed to her 
startled and admiring eyes, a very rainbow of dresses 
—delicate gauzy things that looked for all the world 
like a bed of Spring hyacinths. She had touched them 
all with small, reverent fingers—the rose and cloudy 
blue and delicate yellow things, all diffusing a faint 
perfume of violets. There had been one—a black 
ball-gown, shimmering like the skin of a serpent, that 
appealed to her strange little soul more than the others. 
She had actually kissed it in her rapture, it seemed to 
her such a beautiful thing. And then Marie had come 
in and caught her. Deirdre hated Marie. She had such 
a bad-tempered mouth and bony hands that slapped 
horribly hard. However, it had been worth it—seeing 
and touching those hyacinth-flowery garments, and the 
glittering scales of that black serpent gown. It all came 
back to her as she stood there, looking at the big ward¬ 
robe. She could see herself, a small, half-defiant, half- 
guilty figure with parted, adoring lips and oddly 
unchildlike eyes that surveyed the angry Frenchwoman 
with a sort of suave, veiled insolence in their trans¬ 
lucent depths. 

Mrs. Bellamy’s voice broke in sharply on her 
dreams: 

“Tell Olivia to stop her practising at once—it sets 
my nerves all on edge. And what a dreadful noise 
Howard and Roland are making in the garden! I 
wish you would keep them quiet at this hour in the 
morning.” 

Deirdre looked at her mother with the quiet, clear- 


10 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


eyed gaze that, Mrs. Bellamy always felt angrily, veiled 
a kind of amused contempt. 

“Miss Melsey is coming to-day, so Olivia has to 
practise. And Roly has taken Howard’s pet mashie, 
so Howard is chasing him.” 

“What an absurd fuss to make about a stupid golf 
club! And Howard was swearing dreadfully—please 
speak to him about it, Deirdre. His ways are really 
dreadful. You must take Olivia for a walk, or some¬ 
thing. Anyway, keep her quiet—^that’s all I ask.” 

There was a note of dismissal in her petulant voice, 
but Deirdre did not go. She strolled carelessly over to 
the window and looked out. The sun made her clear 
white skin look like old ivory. Then she turned and 
faced her mother. 

“I want a pair of new shoes,” she said suddenly and 
unexpectedly. 

Mrs. Bellamy felt another shock that was distinctly 
unpleasant. To-day she had seen and heard Deirdre 
properly for the first time for years. She said, almost 
helplessly, so great was her surprise: 

“Haven’t you got any?” 

Deirdre stuck out a slender foot in a shabby, clumsy 
shoe that almost hid and deformed its natural narrow 
lines and arched curves. 

“These old things,” she said briefly. Her eyes 
roamed to a pair of Cynthia’s own shoes flung care¬ 
lessly on the floor—dainty, beautifully cut bronze 
things with high heels and small, chased buckles. “I 
want a pair like that!” she announced, pointing with 
one slim brown finger. 


DEIRDRE AND GUY 


II 


Mrs. Bellamy raised herself a little higher on her 
piled pillows and stared at the amazing young thing 
who was her daughter. A frown creased her white 
forehead and puckered the black brows. 

“Like that! Nonsense! You’re only a child!” 

Deirdre said, quite simply and tonelessly: 

“I’m over seventeen.” She came to the foot of the 
bed and rested a hand on one of the gilt posts. 

Mother and daughter stared at each other. Deirdre’s 
strange eyes were tranquil and a little amused. Only 
her round young chin was set firmly, and her mouth 
was folded into a tight red bud. Astonishment was in 
Cynthia’s gaze, that made place for fury, and some¬ 
thing else that was not pleasant to see. Her beautiful 
mouth started to twitch a little. They stared for a 
long, a palpitating, a psychological moment. And both 
felt that it was war between them. Then Cynthia 
laughed—a shrill, even harsh laugh that was almost 
ugly. 

“So that’s why you came in, is it? To grumble 
about your shoes, and try and get a new pair out of 
me? You horrid, ungrateful girl! Instead of pack¬ 
ing you off to boarding-school as any other mother 
in her senses would have done, I let you stay at home 
and do what you like. All the gratitude I get is that 
you grumble about your clothes and shoes, and let 
the children make a horrible noise in the morning! 
Don’t look at me like that! You won’t get a pair of 
new shoes—those are perfectly good, and you must 
wear them until they wear out! Now go—leave the 
room! Oh, my head—my poor nerves!” 


12 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


She was raving—vulgarly, blindly raving, the words 
pouring out of her mputh in a harsh, shrill voice that 
at times rose almost to a scream. She knew that she 
was losing her dignity, but she could not stop herself. 
She had actually sat up in bed, and was leaning for¬ 
ward with her face distorted, her lips twisted, her eyes 
glittering and narrowed. She repeated again, with 
a voice that shook and shrilled: “Go! Leave the room 
—at oncer But Deirdre did not go. Instead she 
smiled—a cold little smile of such subtle insolence that 
her mother paused, panting, staring with furious, un- 
shamedly hating eyes. In that smile she seemed to see 
herself, all the tissues of breeding and languor swept 
away, ranting and raving like a Billingsgate fishwife— 
and it was not a pleasant sight by any means. 

Deirdre started to speak in an absolutely detached, 
impersonal voice: 

“I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for some 
time—thank goodness I can speak at last! Look here, 
I’ve stood this sort of thing all my life, but I’m fed 
up at last. It’s only lately that it’s dawned upon me 
that there might be some girls who didn’t act as an 
unpaid nursery maid, and have to wear ugly, common 
old clothes and boots, and never have a friend to talk to 
ever. I suppose there are some girls of my age who 
actually have good times, and go to dances and things, 
and wear pretty clothes. Well, I shall!” 

“Stop!” said Cynthia harshly. “Stop! Do you 
hear me?” 

Deirdre never moved—her green eyes between their 
black silky lashes were inscrutable. 


DEIRDRE AND GUY 


13 


“I shall not stop until I have finished. I shall be 
eighteen in June—the time when most girls come out. 
You won’t bring me out, I know—^but Auntie Vi will 
—you know she will. You hate me, and I’m sorry. 
It must be rather decent having a real mother to love 
one. You didn’t like me when I was small, and you 
hate me now. You would like to keep me in the nur¬ 
sery always, badly dressed and kept carefully out of 
visitors’ ways. I don’t believe half a dozen people 
know that you have a daughter of seventeen. I sup¬ 
pose with all the money you spend on yourself and 
your clothes and your entertaining that you can’t man¬ 
age to keep me and the rest of us decently dressed. 
We’re dressed worse than poor children—all of us ex¬ 
cept Howard, who of course has to be properly turned 
out for Harrow. Father doesn’t say anything—poor 
Father, he’s weak as water. But Fm not! I’m grown 
up now, and I intend to do what I want! You may 
try to stop me, but you won’t—you can’t I I’m cleverer 
than you are, and I shall beat you! I shall be young 
for the first time in my life, and laugh a lot! Oh, I 
shall get out—I shall get out!” 

She made a sweeping movement of her hands, as if 
breaking invisible bonds, or throwing open the long- 
shut gates into happiness. Suddenly she laughed—a 
high, clear pipe of young mirth like that of a black¬ 
bird flying through the April woods. 

Mrs. Bellamy sank back among her pillows as if 
stunned. She had heard the girl’s speech with the 
sickening knowdedge in her heart that every word of 
it was true. But her rage had mounted, becoming 


14 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


almost terrible in its intensity. One of her white, 
beautiful hands plucked restlessly at the lace and satin 
coverlet. She stared at the girl at the foot of the bed, 
who looked back at her with oddly unmoved green 
eyes, and laughed with back-thrown head and trium¬ 
phant mouth—stared at her with a twitching mouth 
and something almost like fear in her heart. For 
every line of throat and mouth and chin spoke of de¬ 
fiance, of exulting, rather terrible triumph. Mrs. Bel¬ 
lamy suddenly felt old—dreadfully old. Youth was 
clamouring at her gates, defying her, demanding its 
rights, its long-withheld rights. She felt anger and 
fear, and something that was neither, but the faint 
wraith of regret that this beautiful creature who was 
her daughter should stand before her, and fling terrible 
words in her face that were true—horribly true. It 
was only a wraith of regret for the beautiful things 
that might have been, but it stirred for a second, like 
a small stab of pain. Then it was gone, and she lay 
there staring—staring dumbly at this girl who had said 
in such a calm, unmoved, dispassionate voice—“You 
hate me-” 

Deirdre suddenly moved away, walking across the 
big room with the careless, half audacious swing of an 
athletic boy. At the door she paused and half turned, 
a something that was almost pity in her face. She 
had seen the old tired look drag at the beautiful face, 
the sudden fear leap into dark eyes. But Mrs. Bellamy 
gave no sign or sound, so she went out, shutting the 
door very gently behind her. 

And that was the strange scene played out between 



DEIRDRE AND GUY 


15 


mother and daughter that April morning, in the big 
room with its gilt, cherub-decked, brocade-hung French 
bed 

He Hs * H« 

Deirdre went slowly downstairs, elation in her step, 
gladness in the set of her young head with its long, 
swinging black plait. She knew that there were many 
battles in front of her before she got what she wanted, 
but at last she and her mother knew where they stood. 
And she had a glowing sensation that the victory of 
their first skirmish lay with her. She was absolutely 
without compunction except for that one pitying glance 
of hers. She did not care how she hurt, or wounded, 
or trampled upon as long as she got out of the rut into 
the magic, intoxicating kingdom of Life. Deirdre 
did not hate her mother—she did not think her worth 
hating. But she despised her for all her little petty 
ways, for her dread of appearing old, for her way of 
losing her dignity and raving with shrill voice and 
twisted lips. She was so small in her outlooks and 
aims, this woman who none of them—not even Roly, 
the baby of the family—^called “Mother’’; Clothes and 
Money and Pleasure were her triple gods. Her house 
was perfectly furnished and managed, but her children 
ran wild, badly dressed, uncared for. Mr. Bellamy 
lacked the character or will to protest, beyond an oc¬ 
casional mild suggestion which his wife—if she lis¬ 
tened to it at ail—swept out of her path and mind as 
she always did anything of his. The extraordinary 
part was that he still hopelessly loved her. 

He was a mild, easy-going man, in appearance 


i6 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


comically like Tenniel’s pictures of the Mad Hatter, an 
illusion he assisted by wearing very high collars and 
letting his hair grow long. He was the senior partner 
of a large publishing firm, and went up every morning 
to London, returning by an evening train. Letting his 
wife have a liberal allowance, and entertain as much 
as she liked, he had only once in his life put down his 
foot over anything. That was when Mrs. Bellamy 
wanted to live in town. But Mr. Bellamy flatly and 
for once stubbornly refused. He was the sort of man 
who likes to have a garden in which to smoke a pipe 
on summer evenings and to walk round admiring the 
roses and vegetable marrows. He would have been 
ideally happy in a small cottage with an acre or two of 
ground to play with, and none of the guests who, to his 
secret loathing, filled the house at every hour of the 
day. A domesticated man, this Bellamy; hearth-and- 
home-loving, out of place in the gay throng who 
whirled like giddy, vivid moths around the candle of 
his beautiful wife. Still, he said nothing, for the 
simple reason that he loved her, and was a simple soul 
who loathed anything in the nature of a scene. 

Mrs. Bellamy, not being able to live in town, con¬ 
tented herself with a large house on the petticoats, as 
it were, of a small but busy and fashionable old Sussex 
town. She soon became the acknowledged queen of 
Bamberly society, and contented herself with frequent 
visits to London—absences which were looked forward 
to, by the way, with great longing by the entire family 
—except, of course, Mr. Bellamy. 

Deirdre and the rest rather liked Bamberly. The 


DEIRDRE AND GUY 


17 


town itself was straggling and old-fashioned, and it 
was tucked away in one of the most beautiful parts 
of Sussex. There were places in Deirdre’s strange 
soul which called out for the woods and lanes and 
high, silent places. She liked to get away from the 
others for hours by herself, spent in long, idle dream- 
ings, lying among the bluebells staring up at the pale 
sky peeping through the branches. But lately she had 
revolted against her life. She had seen herself one 
morning in the glass—pale, elfin face, flower-red 
mouth, clear jade eyes that brooded and dreamed, half 
veiled by the black lashes—and she had realized with 
a sudden pang that was not vanity or even pleasure, 
but a kind of naive wonder, that she was beautiful. 
And Life called to her, held out warm, welcoming 
arms and claimed her as her child. Hence the strange 
pent-up outburst of the morning, and that odd, yet 
definite sense of a first victory. 

From the direction of the drawing-room came, 
fortissimo, the “Jolly Peasant,” crashing forth from 
under Olivia’s heavy fingers. As Deirdre opened the 
door she swung round on the piano-stool with antagon¬ 
ism in her gaze, which faded as she saw her sister. 

II 

Olivia was much more like her mother than any of 
the others. She was fourteen, long-legged and armed 
with a short, boyish crop of black curls, and a pale¬ 
skinned, sullen face, which, however, could be entirely 
transformed by a singularly charming smile, which she 
bestowed only upon a favoured few. Her temper was 


i8 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


extremely violent—perhaps that accounted for the red¬ 
dish gleam in the dark eyes. Unlike Deirdre, Olivia 
hated her mother. 

Horrible words to write, but they were true. After 
all, what cause had she to do otherwise? To her, 
“Mother’' merely meant a beautifully dressed vision 
who’ floated into her ken perhaps once a week, and was 
possessed of a temper fully as violent as her own. 
When they did come in contact with each other it 
usually ended in Olivia being sent to bed supperless 
—departing with a shower of abuse on her lips, and 
her curly head high in the air. But she was loyal to 
the few she loved—^this strange, keen-tongued, hot- 
tempered little person. And chief among those was 
Deirdre. 

She swung round now, dangling a long leg whose 
black stocking exhibited to the world a large hole on 
the knee. Her pink cotton dress was faded and badly 
made, much too short in arms and skirt, and stained 
all down the front with bicycle oil. A jagged rent at 
the waistband was clumsily fastened by a large and 
conspicuous black safety-pin that held together its 
yawning mouth. Deirdre’s quick eyes took in all this, 
and her mouth hardened—she was remembering the 
pink and swansdown vision in the gilt bed upstairs 
who would presently think of getting up and choosing 
a beautiful dress for the day out of the many beautiful 
dresses in that plate-glass wardrobe. The mother— 
and then the daughter, untidy, badly dressed, uncared 
for- She said to her sister: 

“Stop your practising now, Livvy. We’ll go for a 


DEIRDRE AND GUY 


19 


walk—over to Gilly’s Farm. P’raps Howard will 
come.” 

Olivia’s smile vanished, and her mouth grew sullen. 

“I suppose,” she said slowly, “that She '’—-the child¬ 
ren never spoke of “Mother”—“told you to s-stop 
me?” 

Olivia stammered badly, but especially so in mo¬ 
ments of excitement and anger. When she came to a 
word which eluded her, she would wrinkle her 
retrousse nose in the funniest way imaginable, and 
finally bring it out with a little “Plop!” of triumph. 

“Yes—^you’d better stop—Fve just had a row with 
Her, and your Peasant’ would be the last straw.” 

Olivia’s eyes suddenly blazed. 

“Well, Met it be!” she cried. “D-damn Her! Let 
it be!” 

And swinging furiously round again, she started 
banging out, with the right foot firmly glued on to the 
pedal, the excruciating finish of the “Peasant.” 

Deirdre’s cool voice came to Olivia’s ears even 
through the noise. 

“t)o shut up, Livvy. And at once, please.” There 
was a note in her calm voice which even Olivia obeyed 
at times. So the pianist suspended an agonizing crash 
of discords to slam down the piano-lid, slip sulkily off 
the stool and march to the door, followed by her sis¬ 
ter’s : “Get your hat and come on. And you might 
wash your hands first, old dear.” 

Left by herself, Deirdre looked rapidly round the 
big, dim flower-filled drawing-room—forbidden Para¬ 
dise except for the purpose of practising on the big 


20 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


grand piano. (The old schoolroom instrument having, 
under a succession of strumming fingers, long since 
given up the ghost.) It was at the grand piano that 
Deirdre looked—longingly, and with a covetous eye. 
She had a musical soul, and Olivia’s strummings were 
real agony to her. Once, years ago, a great pianist had 
stayed at Green Gables, and had played one night after 
dinner. Deirdre remembered creeping downstairs and 
huddling, a small, shivering nightgowned figure, out¬ 
side the door, listening with chattering teeth, a blue 
nose, and ecstasy in her soul to the delicate laughter of 
Chopin, to strange, wild, disturbing Hungarian dances, 
and plaintive, oddly wistful Russian folk-songs- 

That was long ago, but she remembered it as a 
glimpse into a bewildering new world. Since then 
she had discovered that she had a voice which, al¬ 
though not at all strong, was remarkably sweet and 
true. She sang as a bird does, without effort and 
solely for her own delight, or when she was feeling 
happy. And on rare, stolen occasions—^when Mrs. 
Bellamy was out or away—she slipped into the draw¬ 
ing-room and spent hours singing, and playing all the!! 
accompaniments which were not too difficult for her. 
Of eourse it was a secret—no one knew except the 
Family, and it was safe with them. 

Deirdre went into the garden through the big con-| 
servatory that opened out of the drawing-room, warm! 
and pleasant with its banks of greenery and the scent | 
of the demure, dumpy pink and blue hyacinths that 
were ranged on the shelves in earthenware pots. Out¬ 
side she was joined by Olivia, swinging by its elastic 





DEIRDRE AND GUY 


21 


an enormous and battered straw hat, a very ancient 
friend known to the Family as the Mushroom. It did 
not belong to anyone in particular, but they wore it in 
turns if they could not lay hands on their own head- 
gear. It hung on a peg to itself in the lobby, and 
Deirdre, or Olivia, or even Roly would snatch it up 
and clap it on their heads, if they were in a hurry and 
wanted a hat. Olivia put it on, and it completely 
swamped her, like a very large extinguisher over a 
small candle, but she pushed it back from her face and 
grinned at Deirdre, all her ill-temper forgotten, show¬ 
ing a row of very white, pointed teeth like a squirrel’s, 
or some other little animal’s. 

“Come on,” she said amiably. “H-Howard and 
Roly are s-somewhere in the orchard, I think. Did 
you hear the row they were making? Did She hear?” 

“Yes, She did,” said Deirdre shortly. “And She was 
awfully mad. She pitched into me, I can tell you!” 

“D-d-did She?” stammered Olivia, her eyes glitter¬ 
ing. “The old beast! The p-p"P"P-” She twisted 

her large pink mouth into an extraordinary shape, and 
managed to bring out with a pop! like a champagne 
cork being drawn—“Pig!” 

It was characteristic of the attitude of the Family 
towards their mother that Deirdre seemed in no way 
surprised or shocked by this outburst. Instead, she 
cordially agreed. 

“Yes, She is,” she said. “But on the whole I think 
I managed to get one up on Her. Hulloa, there’s 
Howard and Roly!” 

Howard and Roland Bellamy came arm-in-arm up 



22 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


the flower-bordered path at the end of which was the 
little white wicket that led to the large orchard. It 
was hard to believe that half an hour ago these two had 
been indulging in a hot skirmish outside Mrs. Bellamy’s 
window. Indeed the only trace of it was an angry 
flush that still burnt under Howard’s skin and a cer¬ 
tain dishevelment of hair and person about Roly’s 
small and never too tidy ensemble. But the Bellamy 
temper was always one that flared up to Olympian 
heights for one brief, heated moment, and the next 
was forgotten. Olivia and Roly had been known to 
have a fight in the garden, rolling on the path biting 
each other, kicking and cursing with equal gusto, and 
the next minute with their arms round each other’s 
necks, engaged in amiable, even loving converse. 
Theirs was a combination of Southern and Irish tem¬ 
perament—hot-blooded and tempestuous, but quickly 
forgiving. Observe Howard and his small brother, 
the latter carelessly swinging the mashie, cause of all 
the excitement! 

Howard was a tall handsome boy of nearly seven¬ 
teen, with a good-tempered mouth and a certain lazi¬ 
ness of eye. His adolescence was marked by the 
regrettable purple socks that matched the silk hand¬ 
kerchief which drooped languidly out of his breast 
pocket. Altogether a very fair specimen of the average 
English schoolboy, clean cut and straight run, nothing 
very brilliant in the intellectual line, but with soaring 
hopes of getting his cricket colours next season. 

Roly can be dismissed as a small, intensely grubby 
boy, with a very wide mouth, a scratch across his 



DEIRDRE AND GUY 


23 


turned-up freckled nose, and a large grin that showed 
two teeth missing in front. He was, however, the 
possessor of a most charming and gravely courteous 
manner, which, when he cared to use it, could ex¬ 
tract many a tip from his mother’s friends. Heated 
with the flush of battle, he bawled out as his sisters 
approached: 

say, Livvy! I’m goin’ down to the mill-pond to 
see if that old raft is still there? Cornin’?” 

^‘No, thanks. I’m going with D-Deirdre. Go and 
fall in b-by yourself.” 

‘‘You’re a coward! You won’t come ’cause you’re 
frightened. Sissy!” 

“I’m not, you horrid, rude little beast!” 

“Yah!” said Roly, putting out his tongtie, and 
squinting horribly. 

Olivia pushed back the Mushroom and advanced, her 
face scarlet. But Deirdre caught hold of her. 

“Oh, shut up!” she said. “You don’t want to get 
me into another row, do you? Roly, don’t be a rude 
little boy. Livvy, you can go with him if you like— 
I can walk to Gilly’s by myself.” 

“I’ll come with you,” said Howard, who at the word 
“row” had pricked up his ears. 

Olivia, who really wanted to go with Roly, hesitat¬ 
ed, torn between her dignity and desire. Desire won, 
and dragging up one stocking, she followed the now 
admirable Roly through the garden out into the road. 
Deirdre and Howard followed more slowly, and it was 
only when they were out in the shady road that the boy 
spoke. 


24 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“I say, what’s all this about a row?” 

“A row with Her, of course,” said Deirdre curtly. 

“What ho! What was it about?” 

“You—and Olivia. You making a row in the gar¬ 
den, and Livvy torturing the grand with the ^Jolly 
Peasant.’ ” 

Howard stopped short, his pleasant boyish face 
flushing. 

“Oh, I say! What rotten luck! But what’s it got 
to do with you how much row I make?” 

“I being the eldest, am supposed to keep order 
among you all. She thinks I’m a sort of nursery gov¬ 
erness and automaton rolled into one. Well, I’m not. 
I told Her so.” 

“Oh, I say!” said Howard again, and with distress. 
He was very fond of Deirdre, but did not quite under¬ 
stand her at times. 

“For once I told Her what I thought of Her. I 
think,” said Deirdre without the slightest amusement 
or triumph, “that I got in one or two things rather 
neatly. She was almost stunned into silence—think of 
that!” 

“I do!” grinned Howard appreciatively. He had no 
occasion to love his mother. “My aunt! I wish I’d 
heard you, old girl.” 

“Howard, do you think She’ll be any nicer now? 
Do you? Do you think She’ll give me pretty clothes, 
and friends, and let me come down to dinner at nights ? 
Oh, it isn’t fair that we all should be neglected like 
this!” She was climbing a stile as she spoke, and she 
turned, with a foot on the first rung, tears actually 


DEIRDRE AND GUY 


25 


in her green eyes. “Look at me!” she said despair¬ 
ingly. “Don’t I look awful? Simply abominably 
shabby and vile?” 

Howard surveyed her with troubled eyes. Even his 
boyish eyes saw that somehow she was “wrong”— 
other chaps’ sisters at Lords’, or on Founders’ Day, 
didn’t look like this, all out of elbows and down at 
heel and shabby. 

“It’s a shame!” he said hotly. “That old devil! 
Oh Lord, if only Dad had a bit more guts he’d pitch 
into Her, and make Her turn you out decently.” 

“Yes, he would,” said Deirdre tonelessly. “But 
what’s the use? He won’t.” 

There was something so despairing in her voice and 
walk that Howard, with a rare outburst of demon¬ 
strativeness, took her arm. 

“I say, buck up, old girl,” he urged. “Just wait for 
a bit and she’s sure to knuckle down. Why don’t you 
get Aunt Vi to do something?” 

“She’s away now—abroad. But I know she’d help 
me, the darling. She’s always pitching into Her about 
the way Livvy and Roly are allowed to run wild. Isn’t 
it jolly queer that two sisters like Aunt Vi and Her 
should be so different ?” 

“Um! P’raps She's a what-jer-call-it—a throw 
back, you know. Wish Aunt Vi had married Dad.” 

“So do I—though for her sake I’m glad she didn’t. 
Dad’s an old dear, but he’s got about as much pep as 
a veal sandwich. But don’t you worry! I’m going to 
get out of this sort of life if I have to elope with some¬ 
one! You watch me, my lad!” 


26 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


With one of her sudden and bewildering changes of 
mood she was laughing now, and Howard, much re¬ 
lieved, dropped her arm. 

“I say, do you mind if I hop it now? I want to 
buzz up to the links and have a round before lunch. 
What are you going to do?’^ 

“Oh, just stroll round. Cheeroh—I may come up 
afterwards.” 

She watched him out of sight, and then wandered 
down a little path into Gilly’s Wood, a favourite haunt 
of hers when she wanted to be alone, bereft of even the 
beloved Howard’s company. 

For there were strange places in Deirdre’s soul— 
hidden gardens and pleasances that the boy, who loved 
her perhaps better than any of the others, was dimly 
aware of, and never sought to explore. She would 
get queer moods, that Olivia once declared “gave her 
the pip”—moods when she walked and talked miles 
away from everyone else, with dreaming eyes that 
looked at the everyday world and saw it not. On such 
occasions she would retire to Gilly’s Wood and sit, 
arms clasping knees, dreaming, brooding, planning— 
escape. Escape into the world that she wanted so 
desperately, escape from ugly clothes, and obscurity, 
and loneliness—— 

Escape. . . . 

Ill 

Few penetrated into Gilly’s Wood, for a large 
noticeboard on the outskirts of it announced that 
“Trespassers would be prosecuted.” Therefore Deir- 



DEIRDRE AND GUY 


27 


<3re, who for years had been granted the free run of it 
by Farmer Gilly, a great friend of hers, found all the 
solitude there that she could desire. 

Gilly’s Wood was large, and a little stream ran 
through it, spanned at intervals by picturesque little 
bridges made of logs. Deirdre loved it at all times— 
when the first primroses and wind-flowers made a 
delicate carpet for one’s feet; in bluebell time; in the 
Autumn, wfhen she walked ankle-deep in the orange 
and russet sea of dead leaves, the silence broken only 
by the soft whispering of falling leaves or the little 
“plop!” of a beech nut falling; and even in the Win¬ 
ter, when the ground by the stream was thick in mud, 
and the trees stood stripped and black against a dreary 
sky. But bluebell time was her favourite, and it was 
bluebell time now. 

She went to her favourite place—a natural little 
clearing by the stream—one shimmer of mauve blue. 
A giant beech tree hung over the stream—she sat 
down in her usual place, a sort of chair formed by its 
great twisted mossy roots. 

The girl lay back and closed her eyes. Her thoughts 
started gathering as usual, like bees round a honeypot, 
round the dream of her life- 

Escape, escape!- 

Funnily enough, no thoughts of love, or of a Fairy 
Prince who might help her to escape, ever entered 
her head. She would do it herself, independently, 
flaunting it in the face of the Lady in the Gilt Bed. 

She would get out, and drag Olivia out with her. 
Howard and Roly were all right—they were boys— 




28 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Roly would soon be going to a preparatory school, 
and afterwards following Howard to Harrow. But 
it was for herself and Olivia that she felt sorry. If 
they had been sent to boarding school it would have 
perhaps been better. But that did not fit in with 
Mrs. Bellamy’s scheme of things. Deirdre and Olivia 
could pick up anything they could with an inefficient 
governess at home, and then Deirdre could look after 
Roly for her. It dispensed with a nurse, and Mrs. 
Bellamy, despite her extravagance about herself, was 
canny. Her husband’s firm had lately suffered a very 
severe loss, and she realized that the more expenses 
were cut down the better. So the children ran wild, 
a set of imtidy, uncared-for little hooligans, while 
Deirdre planned escape- 

She opened her eyes suddenly—how hot it was! 
The sun penetrated even through the thickly inter¬ 
laced leaves above her. The bluebells were all round 
her, right down to the edge of the stream, where the 
ferns grew, washing up to the tree trunks in great 
waves of shimmery blue. The scent of them came to 
her in a sudden sweet breath—and the lazy drone of 
the bees blundering clumsily in and out of the delicate 
bells. 

How hot it was! Deirdre sat up and looked at the 
stream—it murmured along so coldly—sihe could see 
the shining brown smoothness of the stones at the 
bottom- 

It took her only a minute or so to drag off those 
clumsy heavy shoes and thick stockings, and to dabble 
her pink toes in the clear water. How cool it was, 



DEIRDRE AND GUY 


29 


and refreshing! She sent a shower of dew-drops 
flying with one foot, and laughed with the easily 
pleased amusement of a child. She picked a few 
bluebells and stuck them in her hair, bending to look 
at her laughing young face in the stream. 

As she raised her eyes she saw the Boy- He 

was leaning against a tree on the opposite bank—^^he 
must have been watching her for some minutes. They 
stared at each other for a few seconds, the girl with 
her red lips parted, the boy smiling. Then he said 
“Hulloa!'^ like a child at a party, and she, smiling 
back, ^^Hulloa!’’ 

‘‘Fm coming over! May I?’^ 

She nodded, dumbly, watching him with eyes that 
were rather pathetically wistful. 

He cleared the stream in one long leap, and stood 
looking down at her, laughing very gloriously. And 
she laughed too, a strange happy feeling possessing 
her. 

He sat down and they stared at each other again, 
quite without embarrassment or curiosity. Indeed, 
each felt an odd sense of familiarity, as if long, long 
ago they had sat in this very wood and looked at 
each other thus. It was like, instead of a first en¬ 
counter, a meeting after having been parted for years 
—Deirdre stared at the boy, and he stared back at 
her. 

He was a tall lad, slenderly built, but with the 
figure of an athlete—he was perhaps nineteen years 
old. For the rest, Deirdre got an impression of a 
dark-skinned, thin, eager face, very bright, laughing 


30 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


brown eyes, and untidy hair as black as her own. 
The mouth was well cut, with sensitive lips that laughed 
at her with a certain rather charming audacity. 

She laughed back because she felt impelled to do 
so—there was something in this boy that called to her 
as insistently as a voice. 

He spoke first, and he spoke gaily, as if they had 
been friends for years. 

“I say, what ripping feet you have.” 

Deirdre looked at them with new eyes—no one 
had ever told her this before. They were beautifuJ, 
small and narrow, with a high, delicate instep, aJl 
white and rosy, like apple-^blossom. 

“You don’t mind me saying that, do you?” asked 
the boy, leaning forward anxiously. 

Deirdre smiled at him. 

‘T like it!” she told him childishly. 

He looked relieved. 

“Then that’s all right! I thought you looked a 
ripper when I saw you. What’s your name? I say, 
I feel that we’re going to be awful pals.” 

Again that tingle of happiness all through her— 
This boy, with his audacious, smiling mouth, his gay 
eyes, his splendid youth- 

“Deirdre,” she said like a child. 

“Deirdre what?” 

A strange impish impulse made her shake her 
head. 

“Just Deirdre-” 

“Oh, very well! If you won’t tell me I won’t tell 
you! Deirdre^—what a jolly queer name! Deirdre 



DEIRDRE AND GUY 


31 


—I rather like it though. Haven’t you got a nick¬ 
name?” 

It did not seem a bit strange to be asked this by a 
strange boy of perhaps five minutes’ acquaintance. 
She shook her head, laughing. 

‘‘Well, I shall call you ‘Dear.’ It’s so much shorter 
than Deirdre—I say, do you mind?” He shot her 
the funniest look of anxiety and entreaty and gay 
audacity. She didn’t mind in the least, and told him 
so. Indeed she exulted in it. He propped up his chin 
on his hands, still keeping his eyes fixed on her. 
“Then thafs all right,” he remarked comfortably. “I 
say, it’s awfully queer but I feel as if I’d known 
you for ages and ages-” 

“Do you really? So do I! Isn’t it strange?” 

They looked at each other appraisingly, and wfith 
something that was almost a little awed in their eyes. 
Then Deirdre said: 

“What’s your name? I’ve told you mine?” 

“What? Oh, my name’s Guy—I shan’t tell you 
the other part as you won’t tell me! Now as we’re 
going to be pals we may as well exchange histories, 
etc., mayn’t we ? I’m nineteen, and I and my mother 
are staying near here at—no, I don’t think I’ll tell you 
the name as you’re so keen on mysteries!” His dark 
eyes challenged hers gaily. “I wish you could meet my 
mother. She’s just the toppingest thing in mothers 
going—though I expect,” he added generously, “that 
yours is pretty near her.” Deirdre smiled a little at 
this. “I am at Winchester, you know—I shall be 
leaving next term, though, worse luck. And then 



32 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


comes the ’Varsity, and—well, I think that’s about 

all there is to tell you. Now you-” He leaned 

back comfortably and prepared to listen. 

Deirdre hesitated for a moment, then she said 
slowly: 

“If I tell you the truth you won’t be shocked, will 
you ?” 

''Shocked! Good Lord, no! Of course, don’t tell 
me if you don’t want to-” 

“Oh, but I do! It’s only that it may seem rather— 
rather awful to you. You see, you’ve got a topping 
mother and I haven’t. It makes no end of difference. 
My mother gave us all picturesque names when we 
were born, and then wiped her hands of us. It’s 
horrible to say—it may sound terrible to you—^but 
we all loathe our mother.” 

“Oh, I say!” ejaculated Guy in distress. 

“There, I knew that you’d be shocked! But so 
would you, if you were badly dressed, and kept in 
the background, and made to look after a small 
brother and sister all the time-” 

“But look here,” Guy said awkwardly, “are your 
people—er—^badly off?” 

“Badly off! No, there’d be some excuse if they 
were! But we live in a large house, and my mother 
is always giving parties and things, and she dresses 
gloriously. Yet Olivia and I go about in old clothes 
looking like ragamuffins—and she never speaks to me, 
or kisses me, or has me down in the drawing-room! 
Never, never! She hates me! I don’t know why, 
but she hates me!” 





DEIRDRE AND GUY 


33 


The boy felt an extraordinary flood of anger, hear¬ 
ing these forlorn words, and seeing her tightly folded 
lips quiver a little in spite of themselves. The colour 
rushed up under his dark skin, and he impetuously 
caught hold of her hand. Just held it for a second 
tight, and then dropped it, but it seemed to her like 
a mute expression of sympathy. 

“I wonder why she hates me? It seems so dread¬ 
ful, doesn't it?” 

“Is she pretty?” 

“Oh, yes—dark, you know, with a sort of golden 
skin and dark eyes. And she wears such topping 
clothes that she looks about twenty-five.” 

“That of course explains it. Just take a peep at 
yourself in that jolly little stream aifair, and you’ll 
see why she doesn’t like you.” 

Deirdre peeped obediently. She saw reflected in 
the water her own vivid, young dryad^s face, with its 
beautiful mouth, its strange green eyes, its heavy 
waves of lustreless black hair. 

And the boy watched her, smiling. 

“Well, do you see?” 

“I suppose you mean because I’m pretty? Do you 
think I am ?” 

“I shan’t tell you what I think—it would take too 
long, and it might make you vain-” 

This wonderful boy with his laughing mouth! 

“I’m not vain. No one has ever told me I was 
pretty before. They used to call me ‘Cat’s-eyes’ at 
home because my eyes are that horrible green-” 

“Horrible! Don’t be silly! They’re exactly like 



34 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


very deep, clear lakes, with a lot of jewels and things 
sunk at the bottom that one can’t quite see but one 
knows are there——” 

This wonderful boy! 

And the amazing part is that he said this quite 
sincerely and simply, without any self-consciousness 
or confusion, and just as simply Deirdre listened. 

She surveyed him curiously. He was certainly the 
most bewildering, strange, wonderful boy that she 
had ever met. 

‘‘Do you like poetry?” 

“Like it? It’s my hobby! I find some bit that 
has a sort of haunting sound, and I think of it, and 
store it up for days. That’s what I shall do when 
I’ve finished at the ’Varsity—write, you know. Not 
poetry, because it’s such a fag looking for a rhyme. 
But books and things.” 

“Honestly?” There was awe in her wide gaze. 
Certainly this was a marvellous youth. 

“Oh, rather—I’ve always intended to.” 

He went on, laughingly—“I say, how rummy it is 
that we should be gassing away like this in no time, 
isn’t it ? Must be what-d’you-call-it—Destiny you 
know, that sent me here.” 

“You’re trespassing, anyway,” said Deirdre severely. 

“Am I? Well, it was worth it, after all-” 

They looked at each other again with grave eyes 
that suddenly were alight with mirth. They laughed 
together—for no particular reason other than the 
perfectly adequate one that they were both very young, 
and the bees in the bluebells were droning in a low, 




DEIRDRE AND GUY 


35 


pleasant burr, and a blackbird was calling somewhere 
in the woods. 

Suddenly the boy lifted his head. 

“Listen to that fellow,'’ he said. “He’s calling 
your name! ‘Dear! Dear! Dear!’ ” He smiled at her, 
and she listened too. 

“Dear! Dear! Dear!” fluted the blackbird. 

“This wood must be yours,” said Guy gaily. “Even 
the birds know it! I say, you’re not a thingummy— 
a dryad affair, are you ? You look rather like one, you 
know! Promise you won’t disappear into the stream, 
or turn into an oak tree, or any rot like that, won’t 
you ?” 

“No, I won’t turn into an oak tree, but I’ve got to 
go now. It must be nearly lunch time. Where are 
my stockings? Oh, yoa’re sitting on them!” 

He tossed them over, and watched her, frowning, 
as, quite free from self-consciousness, she drew them 
on, hiding the pink and white slenderness of her pretty 
feet. 

“It seems a shame to hide them,” he said abruptly. 

“And these stockings are so thick too-” 

“You ought to have those shiny silk ones, like 
mother’s, and silver shoes-” 

Deirdre smiled. 

“Always silver shoes?” 

“Always and always—like a Fairy Princess, you 
know. They’d twinkle as you walked-” 

The girl got up, and he gathered up his long person 
from the soft mossy ground. 

“Good-bye-” 






36 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Oh, I say—aren’t you coming again? Do come 
to-morrow!” 

They stood looking at each other—the boy half 
smiling, half grave, the girl serious. 

“Do you want me to come?” 

“Rather! Why”—his voice was injured—“I 
thought we were going to be pals!” His warm gaze 
swept her, surrounded her. 

“All right—yes, I’ll come.” 

“You will? Oh, well played! Well then, it’s not 
good-bye, is it? Only au revoir -” 

''Au revoirj then-” 

''Au revoir —Dear-” 

His eyes were audaciously mocking, challenging her 
—she had to laugh—^this boy called for laughter. 
And, laughing, she went—as quickly as the fleeing 
dryad he had compared her to. The woods lay still 
and waited for the morrow, 

IV 

That evening Deirdre Bellamy, leaving the others 
squabbling in the nursery over “Beggar-my-Neigh- 
bour,” slipped downstairs and very softly opened the 
door of the library. 

As she had expected, her father was sitting in one 
of the big leather arm-chairs reading. The soft light 
from the little Chinese shaded reading-lamp threw a 
pleasant warmth over his weak, kindly face, and on 
the array of magazines and journals neatly piled on 
the table. 

Deirdre liked the library, especially now, when the 





DEIRDRE AND GUY 


37 


wine-red velvet curtains were drawn, and the lamp¬ 
light picked out the gold toolings of the books that 
lined the room,. Mr. Bellamy was proud of his 
library, which contained several very rare editions. 
And he fostered his eldest daughter’s love of books, 
allowing her the free run of the book shelves. This 
was one of the. few joys of Deirdre’s life. To her the 
library was a field of flowers, out of which she could 
pick and cherish the choicest .blooms. Here was a 
wide and strangely assorted field. She read Dickens 
and Ruskin, Thackeray, Ouida, Carlyle, Shakespeare, 
Oscar Wilde. But poetry was to her, as to the 
strange boy of Gilly’s Wood, the first and best thing. 
Beauty she adored in any form. It was a cult to her— 
she who had to do with so little beauty. More than 
a cult—a passion, a craving, an intense desire. 

Beauty of line—the clean, strong lines of an athletic 
boy, the curve of a throat and chin—^beauty of colour 
—a sunset, perhaps, or apple-^blossom against a lapis- 
lazuli sky, or the red of a girl’s young mouth—beauty 
of sound—above all beauty of sound—Music that 
made one’s heart come into one’s throat with sheer 
rapture. And the subtler music of a haunting phrase, 
a turn and twist of words that spoke and sobbed like 
the wailing cadences of violins, or a bar of Chopin 
played on muted strings, or the wind in the willows 
through the grey and lilac of a June dusk. . . . 

Beauty called to her, holding out glorious arms. 
Beauty sang to her from the printed page. She read 
Shelley and Rupert Brooke, John Masefield and Keats, 
Rossetti, Browning, the sad, slow music of Yeats. 


38 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


They opened for her ‘'magic casements” which 
showed her enchanted “perilous seas in faerie lands 
forlorn” of which she had never before even dreamt 

Mr. Bellamy peered at her mildly and kindly as she 
came in. He was rather handsome in a rugged sort of 
way, with short-sighted grey eyes, and a weak mouth. 
He was fond of his children in his own way—especially 
of Howard and Deirdre. That they were shame¬ 
fully neglected he had not got enough sense to see. 
If he had done it would not have mattered very much. 
He had protested once or twice, very half-heartedly, 
to his wife, and then, feeling his duty done, bothered 
no more about it. And Deirdre, standing looking 
down at him, felt a sudden rush of despair, as she 
realized that here was no ally to help her with her one 
consuming idea. She might have known—she might 
have guessed—^knowing him so well. 

She kissed him. 

“Hulloa, Daddy-” 

“Hulloa, dear! How goes it to-day?” 

He put down his book and stretched out an arm. 
Hope lifted up a dying head in her—he was so kind 
—so very kind. 

“Well, to tell you the truth—rottenly!” 

“Dear, dear!” Apprehension tinged his voice. 

“You—you haven’t been getting into trouble with 
your mother again, have you?” 

“Well, I—yes, we did have rather a row!” 

“A row!” Mr. Bellamy, most peace-loving of 
mortals, shrank from the very word. 



DEIRDRE AND GUY 


39 


Deirdre suddenly found herself hesitating. 

It was about—we—I—oh, Daddy, she keeps us 
so badly! We never go anywhere, or have pretty 
clothes, or anything—anything!” 

Mr. Bellamy felt peevishly that this was going to 
spoil his evening. 

^‘But surely—” he said weakly. 

“Oh, look at me! This vile old dress! These heavy 
shoes! and Her, in Her gilt bed! HerT Deirdre sprang 
up—she stood facing him. “Olivia’s as bad—but at 
present she’s not at the age to care much. But I do! 
I’m starved for ever3rthing that most girls have always 
had—people to love me, and dances and things, and 
pretty clothes, and—and”—absurdly she thought of 
something that Guy had said, and her eyes filled— 
“silk stockings!” 

“Silk stockings!” said Mr. Bellamy, by now al¬ 
most stupefied. 

“Yes—like She wears! Silk, not thick wool or 
lisle thread! I’ve never had a pair in my life, and 
I’m going to! Daddy, can’t you understand?” 

“But my dear child,” began Mr. Bellamy helplessly, 
“surely your mother knows best. Remember you are 
only a little girl still, and that your time for dances 
and—er—silk stockings will come later.” 

He felt horribly priggish and pompous as he said 
this. And horribly staggered when Deirdre said for 
the second time that day, in a flat dreary voice— 
“I’m over seventeen.” She knew that it was no 
good, that she could expect no help from this quarter. 
But she said slowly: 


40 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“You see, Daddy, it’s the time when most girls come 
out. Ask Her if I may go up to London and stay with 
Aunt Vi. Do ask her, Daddy darling. It’s the only 
way. I must get out of this—I must!” 

Her father felt disturbed and upset. He watched 
her go and leave him to enjoy the very interesting 
memoirs that he was reading. 

Anything for her to go- 

It was so easy to promise- 

“Very well. Yes, I’ll say something about it. But 
I’m very much afraid—still, I’ll ask. Now, run along, 
little girl, and for heaven’s sake go softly past your 
mother’s door. She has a headache. Good night, dear 


Anything for her to go- 

The memoirs again, and peace, and the lamplight 
glinting on the gold-tooled leather of the books. 

Deirdre went, knowing in her heart that she had 
failed. A selfish mother, a broken reed of a father— 
now her only chance lay with Aunt Vi. Jolly Aunt 
Vi, with her monocle, and her sables, and her deep, 
hearty laugh. 

She was at Nice now, but she was coming home 
—she had written to say so—very soon. And then— 
who knew? Perhaps it would be escape after all— 
escape from nursery teas and flannel petticoats and 
“ Beggar-my-Neighbour. ’ ’ 

She opened the door of the old nursery—since 
designated by the more dignified title of “School¬ 
room,” and walked in. The three at the table were 
so busily engaged in heated argument that they did not 






DEIRDRE AND GUY 


41 


even notice her entrance. She walked over to the win¬ 
dow and stood looking out. The night was still and 
clear. The pale mauve sky was powdered with stars. 
She stood thinking of a great many things—of her 
mother’s drawn, distorted, beautiful face—of bluebells 
and bees and a blue, blue sky—of a boy’s dark-skinned, 
thin, eager face and always half-audacious brown eyes 
—of ‘‘Dear, Dear, Dear!” And all these seemed 
welded into one vibrant, thrilling word—Escape- 

There was an argument going on at the table. 
Voices raised—Olivia stammering—Howard crying, 
“Cheat!” 

“I’m n-n-not!” 

“You bally little cheat!” 

“You’re a 1-liar! D-damn you!” 

Confusion- A chair overturned—chaos—the 

door opened with a crash—skurrying feet down the 
passage. 

Deirdre turned in dismay. She heard sounds of the 
chase—Howard leaping, cursing after the flying Olivia 
—A yell of “Got you!” A sudden crash that seemed 
to shake the house. Of course that was Olivia skid¬ 
ding on the mat outside her mother’s room— Sounds 
of conflict, and Roly giving tongue. Then came an 
opening door—a shrill, wrathful voice: 

“What is the meaning of this! Howard! Olivia!” 

Deirdre, peering over the banisters, as she ran down¬ 
stairs, saw her mother standing like an avenging god¬ 
dess in the doorway; with Roly, standing on the knob 
of the banisters, shouting “Yoicks!” and “Tally-ho!” 
in great glee—Howard and Olivia were rolling over 




42 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


and over on the floor—both fighting like wild beasts. 
Olivia was biting and kicking—Howard, forgetting 
his age and dignity, yelling, “You called me a liar!”— 
more chaos and great conflict. 

Mr. Bellamy, torn from his memoirs, came dashing 
upstairs. Deirdre came dashing down. Her mother 
saw her, paused, quivering. They stood looking at 
each other. Then Mrs. Bellamy, her face twitching, 
swept into her room and slammed the door. Mr. 
Bellamy followed her. 

The combatants on the floor separated—Olivia with 
a bleeding nose, Howard nursing his wrist where the 
imprint of Olivia’s small, sharp teeth showed angrily. 

“For goodness’ sake get up and come upstairs,” said 
Deirdre. “Howard, you are an ass to make such a 
fuss—^Livvy, get up and go and wash your nose. You 
and Roly must go to bed-” 

“I say, is it bleeding much?” asked Howard 
anxiously. “Livvy, old girl. I’m most awfully sorrv 
if I—er-” 

“Oh, not m-much,” said Olivia airily. She picked 
up the hem of her crumpled cotton dress and 
scientifically staunched the flow with it. “Besides, I 
b-bit you. Did it hurt?” 

“I should jolly well think it did, you little devil. 
My aunt, you have got sharp teeth.” 

“I know,” said Olivia complacently. “Still, I’m 
sorry. You needn’t have g-got into such a bait, though 
—n-need he, Deirdre? I s-say, Deirdre, need I go to 
bed yet? Just one g-game more?” 

Deirdre was walking ahead with Roly. Olivia 




DEIRDRE AND GUY 


43 


came and caught hold of her arm, still holding the 
hem of her skirt to her damaged nose. 

“Oh, all right,’’ said Deirdre. 

She did not feel in the mood for argument after 
the chaos of the day. They got the Happy Family 
cards out. 

The Happy Family sat down amicably to play. 


CHAPTER II 


EMPTY 

I 

The next morning Guy was there again waiting for 
her among the blueibells. He saw her coming a long 
way off, stepping with the lithe boyish walk that was 
habitual to her. There was just a hint of insolence, a 
touch of swaggering grace about her walk that gave 
it a peculiar charm. It was not so much a girl’s walk 
as a boy’s—easy, long steps like a schoolboy’s. 

She wore to-day a green dress—her best, to be truth¬ 
ful, which she had put on urged by a touch of vanity. 
Her long, lustreless black hair hung over her shoulders 
in two heavy plaits, which gave her young face a cer¬ 
tain medieval air. She reminded the boy of a picture 
he had seen somewhere of Queen Guinevere, dressed 
in a pale green gown, with great hanging sleeves edged 
with fur, rosy-lined, silver-laced. The fleeting fancy 
brushed him that he would like to see Deirdre dressed 
like that, in the shimmer of satin and silver, with 
pearls round her throat, and pearls twisted in the braids 
of her long black hair- 

She walked knee-deep in bluebells and smiled at 
him. He called out to her: 


44 



EMPTY 


45 


^‘Hulloa, DearT’ 

“Hulloa, Guy!” 

They stood looking at each other, laughing-mouthed. 
It was good to be young and together. Deirdre felt 
almost frightened when she realized exactly how good 
it was. Life was somehow subtly changed. To 
think that the day before yesterday it had held for 
her no dark, audacious, laughing eyes, no gay voice 
that said “Dear,” and made it sound like a bar of 
music, or a line of a sonnet, or something beautiful. 
Yet it had done. In some mysterious, subtle way she 
had known they were there—had been there through 
eternity—^waiting for her. Again the odd feeling of 
familiarity possessed her. It swept her for a second 
—a sort of brief picture, like a shadow on a cinema¬ 
tograph screen, of her and this boy—somewhere—to¬ 
gether—long long, very long ago. Swept her and was 
gone. It was like a curtain dropping over a window 

Then they sat down together, still looking at each 
other—not curiously, ,but intently, gravely, as if they 
were trying to imprint each other’s faces on their 
memories. 

They began to talk. Guy sat with his back against 
the tree—arms round his hunched-up, long young 
legs. He listened, smiling, but his intent gaze never 
left her. She felt his dark eyes looking at her, and 
whenever she turned she met their half-serious, half- 
mocking gaze. She liked to feel it—it was like some¬ 
thing warm and friendly enveloping her. 

He was a beautiful listener. A word here and there. 



46 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


and he had the story of last night’s endeavours, its fight, 
its Happy Family. He listened, laughing. Deirdre 
liked his laugh—it curled up one corner of his rather 
too sensitive mouth into the nicest, faunish curl in the 
world. 

“I say, what a funny kid your sister must be!” 

‘‘Olivia?” 

“Yes, Olivia. That’s another name I rather like. 
It’s got a nice mignonette smell about it.” 

“Smell? How can names have smells?” 

“I don’t know—they have for me, anyway. Does 
it seem an awfully mad wheeze to you?” 

“No, I like it. What does my name smell of?” 
She leaned forward, lips parted, as eager and intrigued 
as a child listening to a fairy story. 

“Yours?—Deirdre”—his huskily soft voice caressed 
it—“Deirdre—a sort of violet-y, peat-smoky smell. 
Or the wind on the moors, smelling of the hot gorse 
and bracken and heather—you know, that warm, nutty 
smell. Anyway, it’s something out of doors, and sweet 
and clean. Nothing hot-housy like roses or lilies.” 

She was as pleased as a child. Her eyes were shin¬ 
ing like clear water. 

“How do you think of all that?” 

“I don’t know,” he said again. “Of course at school 
I have a reputation for being slightly barmy. If I 
wasn’t fairly good at games and things they’d think I 
was quite off my head.” 

Deirdre gave a little lazy gurgle of laughter. 

“ ‘A prophet is without honour in his own country 1’ 
Wait until you start! Think how proud I shall feel 


EMPTY 


47 

when I see a new novel by Guy-’’ She stopped 

abruptly, and he smiled. 

“Ha ha! Guy who? That’s the question. Still I 
shan’t tell you until you tell me!” 

Deirdre tilted her dark head on one side, like a bird. 
It struck him that she was really very like a bird— 
something warm and soft and tiny in one’s hand. 

“Well, I shan’t!” 

“Oh, I say! Why on earth not?” 

“It would take all the fun and mystery away! It’s 
so much nicer not knowing—just guessing! Besides, 
think if you found out that I was Deirdre Smith! And 
for all I know you may be Guy Jones! Think of the 
disillusionment!” 

“ ‘A rose by any other name,’ etc.! And I can 
promise you my name isn’t Jones! And I’m ready to 
bet a dollar that your isn’t Smith!” 

“It might be! Or something worse, you know, like 
Buggins-” 

Her face quivered into laughter. 

“Deirdre Buggins!” 

“Deirdre Fiddlesticks! Look here, I tell you it’s 
impossible to have a name like Buggins when you’ve got 
green eyes and a dimple in your elbow.” 

“Why on earth not?” 

“Oh, it’s not done! Not on Tuesdays, anyway.” 

They looked at each other and suddenly burst out 
laughing. 

Deirdre felt happy. She felt a-tingle with happi¬ 
ness. It sort of glowed through her like a fire. It 
was being with this boy, with his nonsense, his dark, 




48 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


audacious eyes—it was the laughter and the youth and 
the absurd, dear gaiety of it. It was—for a brief and 
glorious period—escape. 

Then they sobered swiftly. He asked her, with a 
seriousness which made her suspect more latent 
laughter- 

“Do you remember the first time I met you?” 

She puckered her brows. 

“It doesn’t need much effort on my part! Why, 
it was only yesterday.” 

“Oh, I don’t mean that time. I mean the first 
time of all—centuries and centuries ago-” 

The look of distress in her eyes was almost funny. 
She was so afraid of seeming stupid to this wonderful, 
this bewildering boy. 

-Guy—I—I’m afraid-” 

He hastened to reassure her. 

' “Have you ever heard of pre-existence?” 

The word was familiar to her. She suddenly re¬ 
membered a book she had read somewhere—pre-exist¬ 
ence—of course- 

“It means that you’ve lived before, doesn’t it?” 

“That’s^it. It’s only a theory, of course, and I 
never thought twice about it till I met you yesterday. 
Then that confounded feeling of familiarity got me. 
I knew that I’d never set eyes on you before in my 
life, but yet I knew you! Somehow I’d known you 
were somewhere waiting for me all my life—I knew 
how your voice would sound—I knew how your mouth 
would look when it smiled—I—I’d always known 







EMPTY 


49 


Deirdre and the boy looked at each other. Their 
faces were grave and a little awed. When the girl 
spoke her voice was a little unsteady. 

“I knew too! I had that same feeling! How queer 
—how awfully queer-” 

“So thinking about it in bed last night I hit on that * 
notion—pre-existence. ’ ’ 

“You mean that you and I—you and I-?“ 

“Were together—somewhere—sometime—^but we 
were together. Surely you remember?’^ 

“Tell me—tell me \” 

“I wish I knew. Perhaps it was at Solomon’s Court 
- Good old Solomon-” 

“The Song of Solomon.” Suddenly she remem¬ 
bered it. She said softly: 

“ ‘King Solomon made himself a chariot of the wood 
of Lebanon. 

“ ‘He made the pillars thereof of silver, the bottom 
thereof of gold, the midst thereof being paved with 
love, for the daughters of Jerusalem.’ ” 

“You were one of the ‘daughters of Jerusalem,’ 
then. You were a dancing girl—no, I think you were 
a Princess. You wore pearls in your hair, and golden 
sandals, and you sat in a golden chair. And two black 
slaves fanned you with peacock fans, and you had a 
panther cub at your feet.” 

This was better than all the stories in the world. 
She believed every word he said—the picture he painted 
sprang vividly to life before her eyes. 

“And you—what were you?” 

“I was the Captain of the Guard—your Guard. 






50 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


You never looked at me, of course—you kept yolir 
lashes hiding your green eyes. You sat playing with 
your panther cub, and I watched you from a long way 
of¥.’^ 

“What happened? What did we do?’' 

“Ah—I wonder! I can only gues.-” 

“Tell me some more,” she said, with a child’s in¬ 
satiable greed for romance. 

The boy ran long brown fingers through his black 
hair, making it stand on end in a wildly comical way. 

“Well, let me see- You were one of Marie 

Antoinette’s ladies-in-waiting. You know, you’d look 
ripping with powdered curls, and a patch at the corner 
of your mouth, and a flowered crinoline. I was a 
peasant—^yes, I was, so you needn’t frown!” He 
dropped the role of romancer to fulfil that of orches¬ 
tra, and whistled a few bars of the “Marseillaise.” “I 
watched you sometimes driving along in your gilded 
coach, but of course you never looked at me. I was 
only the rabble under your little feet in their scarlet- 
heeled shoes. You were a very haughty lady-” 

“Oh, but I wasn't!” protested Deirdre. “I’m not a 
bit haughty!” 

“Yes, you were!” persisted the orator. “Very 
haughty! You sat in the coach playing with your 
beastly little spaniel, and you never even looked!” 

“Yes, I did!” said Deirdre naively. “Just a little 
peep at you—I just couldn’t help it!” 

Guy relented. 

“Well, just a peep, then. But that didn’t count. I 
hated you for sitting in a gilded coach with diamonds 





EMPTY 


51 


on your fingers and a jewelled collar round the neck 
of your spaniel—I hated you!” 

'‘Oh, did you?” said Deirdre in a small, forlorn 
voice. 

Guy hastened to reassure her. 

“But I loved you too, all the same—I just couldn’t 
help loving you-” 

“Oh, did you?” said Deirdre happily. She looked 
at him with shining eyes—this wonderful boy! This 
marvellous boy! 

“The Revolution came, and of course you were 
swept into it. The people hated you for your haughty 

“Oh, noT 

“Oh, yes !—your haughty selfishness. By this time 
I was something of a nib in the Republic, and I sat in 
the tribunal that condemned you to death. I watched 
you going in the tumbril—I watched you on the steps 
of the guillotine. You saw me, too, and you sneered 
as you passed by--” 

Deirdre was far away from the Sussex wood, stand¬ 
ing on the steps of the guillotine looking at the tall 
young citizen in his caped coat and red-cockaded 
tricorne, whose dark eyes burnt fiercely in a pale, set 
face. Looking at him with a sneer on her lips for a 
moment, then passing on, fine lady to the very end, 
aloof, haughty, cynically amused, to the Greatest 
Adventure of All. . . . 

“And I loved you,” said the boy. 

He was quite pleased with the little tragedy he had 
evolved—pleased when he saw the effect it had on her 




52 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


—the clear eyes darkening with horror, the sensitive 
mouth actually strained with tragedy. 

“But that’s terrible—that’s sad! We weren’t sad, 
were we? Oh, Guy, we weren’t unhappy? We can’t 
be!” 

Swiftly, he hastened to reassure—the half-tender, 
half-whimsical curl of his lips! 

“Of course not. Baby! I was only making it up. 
How on earth can I tell? I only know—feel it, deep 
down in me—that we were always together. We 
can’t fight against it—it’s—Kismet.” 

Like a child, her cloud had passed. How could one 
be unhappy with this boy? And the little stream 
was singing—singing as it danced and hurried and 
skipped over the smooth, shining brown stones. A 
yellow butterfly hovered over it for a minute, perilously 
close, looking like a flower petal against the silvery 
water, until it was blown aimlessly along. Ferns bent 
down to the water, and tottering grass, and ladies’ 
lace, and the sky was an intensely vivid blue between 
the lattice of fresh young beech boughs, and from the 
far-oif sheep pens came the pleasant, drowsily remote 
tinkle of bells. 

She turned on him a face so radiant that he was 
almost startled. It gave him the impression of a 
flower—the clear, warmly white skin, soft and smooth 
as the texture of a petal, the green depths of wide 
eyes, the vivid scarlet of those disdainfully curved 
lips. And, as a foil to all this flower-like colour, the 
thick waves of dead black hair, with its enchanting 
purplish shadows. She looked at him gravely and 


EMPTY 


53 


frankly, like a child, and like a child she said in her 
clear, young voice: 

“Fm so glad-” Very softly and simply and 

sweetly—“Fm so glad-” 

The colour mounted under his dark skin in a swift 
rush. Suddenly he wanted to shout, to run very fast 
with the rain stinging his face, or the sun in his eyes, 
or the wind buffeting him—pressing its strong, clean 
exhilarating kiss on his lips. He got up—he could 
not remain sitting. He threw back his handsome 
head and laughed. Triumph was in that laugh, a 
little audacity, possession, and something that was 
none of these, but a sort of shaken joy that he hid 
beneath the jewelled mask of Laughter. 

Deirdre watched the boy as he stood there. He 
looked extraordinarily handsome—tall and slender and 
strong-limbed as one of the old Grecian gods. No, 
most of all he reminded her of the Winged Mercury 
—eager, poised, ardent- This boy’s every move¬ 

ment was full of grace and strength. The whole 
impression of him seemed to be swift and clean and 

full of most eagerly leaping life- 

Life—that was it. Beautiful, keen, strong Life- 

She wanted it—she held out her arms to it, as a 

flower turns its face to the sun. Life- 

Escape—escape-! 

II 

That night her father came in late. She waylaid 
him in the hall as he came in. As he opened the door 
a breath of fragrant air crept past him. She got a 









54 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


glimpse of swaying trees silhouetted against a heavy, 
languorous, purple sky, and a sultry apricot yellow 
moon that hung low in the sky like a beautiful Japanese 
lantern. 

Inside it was all quiet—^very quiet. Her mother 
had gone away that morning for a week to some friends 
in London, and the peace during her absence was 
like a sudden calm after a tempestuous storm. 

Deirdre caught hold of her father’s arm eagerly. 
Hope was in her shining eyes, tilting the corners of 
her mouth. Looking at her beautiful little face—the 
great, clear, translucent eyes, the curve of chin and 
throat—he felt a twinge of compunction. 

“Well—did you speak to Her about it. Daddy dear? 
What did She say? Tell me—do tell me? Did She 
say I may go to Auntie Vi?” 

His smile was uneasy. 

“Well, to tell you the truth—she was upset last 
night—you young devils, you know—all the worry— 

couldn’t very well tell her then-And this morning 

I only saw her for a moment before she went-” 

“You—didn’t—tell Her?” 

“Well, how could I, old lady? Wrong time to 
choose, you know—in a rage—undiplomatic—very. 
But when she comes home—we’ll see what we can do. 
Eh?” Again that uneasy smile—fumbling in pockets 
—something soft and tissue-wrapped in her hand. 
“Just a little present, dear—to make up for it—some¬ 
thing you said you wanted. Now, run along—run 
along-” 

She did not move—so he left her there, standing 



EMPTY 


55 


under the big rose-shaded standard lamp. She stood 
there quite a long time, motionless. She took in the 
scene round her with astonishing minuteness. The lamp 
cast a soft rosy glow on the panelled walls, and the dull 
gilt frames of the portraits. One, hanging over the 
wide fireplace, was an ancestress of her own—and oddly 
like her. And it seemed to her that the girl, with her 
black love-locks, her narrow, long-fingered, white hands, 
smiled down at her pityingly from her gilt frame. 

Then she turned round and went—upstairs to her 
little room. It was next door to the nursery—a queer, 
bare little place with its narrow bed, its white walls. 
But the view from the little window was wonderful— 
right over the hills to the bare shoulder of the Downs 
and the blue mistiness of the Weald. A wistaria 
climbed up the wall outside—in the Spring it hung 
great heavy purple tassels of blossom round her 
window, and in the Winter the dry tendrils and leaves 
tapped on the glass like timid fingers. She could hear 
the wind now, stirring and sighing among the thick 
leaves and drooping flowers. 

The girl sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. 
She stared straight in front of her with dull eye— 
facing Defeat. She knew that, despite her father’s 
vague promises. Defeat stared her in the face. Unless 
a miracle happened she was shut in—shut in from 
Life and all the dear things of Life—Laughter and 
Youth—Love—somewhere waiting for her, remote 
and fugitive and gloriously smiling. People and 
things—the throb and stir and pulse of the world— 
dark laughing eyes and a strong, leaping flame- 


56 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


That was it—the Flame of Life. And she had 
missed it all. Defeat. .... 

Deirdre suddenly became aware of the crushed 
tissue-'wrapped parcel in her hand. She looked at it 
aimlessly—-with curiously stiff fingers undid the string. 
Something soft and silken and shimmering, like a 
snake, slid into her lap—a pair of silk stockings— 
black, with lace let in all the way up the instep. Silk 

stockings-*‘To make up for it-” 

Suddenly she laughed, rather a high, harsh laugh. 
She turned them over in her hands—they felt like 
gossamer fabric, spun out of cobwebs on fairy looms. 

Deirdre looked at them, and then at her own coarse 
stockings and shabby shoes. At the little bare room, 
with its open window through which stole the subtle 
fragrance of the sleeping garden, and the rustling of 
the wistaria leaves. At her own face in the square of 
glass on the wall—her own face, that seemed somehow 
a stranger’s. Suddenly a tear, like a single diamond, 
fell on to the stockings in her lap. It lay there, 
shimmering in the light—she put them away in a 
drawer and started undressing. 

Lying in the little bed staring into the darkness, 
Deirdre thought of many things: chiefly of the world 
that she longed so intensely to see. Places on the 
atlas, mere names that conjured up wonderful scenes 
in her vivid imagination—the smooth melting sound 
of Venice—sunset over lagoons, tinging the pale 
marble of steps and palaces with faint rose, a gondola 
slipping over the amber-stained water like a black 
swan—sunset gradually fading and deepening into 




EMPTY 


57 


dusk. Venice like a sleeping Princess beneath her 
twilight veil of dim blue and grey and mauve. Lanterns 
on the prows of the silent gondolas, casting a pale 
orange glow on the silvery water—marble gleaming 
wan in the moonlight—a man’s voice, low and sweet, 
coming faintly over the water in some Southern love 
song—the plucked strings of a guitar- 

New York—its bustle and stir, the roar of Broad¬ 
way at night time, its electric signs, the rattle of the 
overhead railway. 

Granada—the very name sounded soft and liquid, 
tinged with Romance—the Court of Lions, by moon- 
light. 

Tunis, Tangiers, dusky faces and strange tongues— 
beyond that into the “Garden of Allah”—the desert. 
Dream cities built pyramid by pyramid from travel 
books she had read, poems, pictures. Hers was the 
wander lust—the craving to see the world and its 
cities—to escape from her own narrow limit. 

“Escape!” she said fiercely to the darkness, “I 
will escape I Whatever it costs me I Whatever I have 
to pay! I’ll get out of this—into Life!” 

Venice—New York—Granada—Tunis- 

The Flame of Life, glowing, leaping- 

She fell asleep at last, with the tears still wet on her 
lashes. 

Ill 

The next morning, and for many mornings, Deirdre 
and Guy kept their innocent tryst in the little clearing 
of Gilly’s Wood. 





58 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Deirdre felt that in that short week she had shown 
more of her hidden self than she had ever done before 
in her life. They talked of so many things, simply and 
frankly, and without the least touch of self-conscious 
priggishness which would have spoilt it all. They 
talked of poetry, and people, Swinburne, swimming, 
beauty and music. Of birds and golf, pre-existence, 
the Brontes. Deirdre told him of all her efforts and 
plans to get out into the world she wanted so intensely, 
of her dreams of all those names of wonder—Venice, 
Tunis and Granada—of her craving for beauty and 
colour. In turn the boy spoke of his dreams and 
ambitions, his mother, his life. As they talked they 
looked at each other with clear eyes, and they laughed 
a great deal, because of their youth, and their nearness, 
and Spring. 

It was on a Monday that they had first met, and on 
the Monday week Guy had a message for her. 

“Mother sent you her love-” 

Deirdre’s eyes widened. 

^^Mef Did she really, Guy?” 

“Of course she did. I told her all about you the 
first day we met. She was awfully interested-” 

“Was she? Are you sure she didn’t mind us making 
friends, and all that?” 

“Mindf You don’t know my mother! She was 
no end pleased and interested. And I told her all 
about my pre-existence notion—it quite excited her. 
She wants to meet you most awfully. So she sent you 
her love, and she is going to try and come along here 
one morning before we go-” 





EMPTY 


59 


A thrill of pleasure shot through her, mingled with 
dismay. The pleasure was for the love that Guy’s 
mother had sent her. The dismay was for his last 
words—“Before we go-” 

But how silly of her! He and his mother were only 
staying in the neighbourhood. They had to go one 

day. Still—“Before we go-” Dismay made her 

voice forlorn. 

“When do you go?” 

“Not for another week or so. Mother likes it down 
here awfully.” 

Another week—one little week- 

“I shall miss you horribly when you’re gone-” 

She could not keep the little forlorn quiver out of 
her voice. He heard it, and his voice was suddenly 
amazingly gentle. 

“So shall I, Dear—you don’t know how I shall 
miss you-” 

She looked away miserably, at the stream which 
had suddenly ceased to sparkle, at the bluebells that 
had all become one misty blue blur. 

“Oh, but it’s all right for you. You’ll have people 
to love you—your mother—friends—I have no one. 
I shall be alone again—all alone.” 

“Not alone. Dear. You’re not going to forget me, 
are you? You’ll write to me sometimes? You must. 
We can’t just meet and drift apart again. We’ll write, 
and keep in touch?” 

She looked at him with soft eyes. 

“Oh, we must, we must! You’ll tell me how you get 
on with your writing, won’t you ? And then we’II meet 






6 o 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


again one day—perhaps you’ll come down here again ?” 

“Of course we will. Cheer up, old thing, Fll write 
you long letters—honestly. But you must tell me your 
name, you know, and address.” 

Mischief peeped out of her dancing eyes, lurked in 
the curve of her red mouth. 

“Not yet—not yet! Let’s keep it up a little longer 
—our pretence!” 

“Oh, but I say, you must tell me before we go-” 

“Oh, of course. To-morrow! There, will that 
satisfy you? To-morrow, with solemn pomp and 
show, we’ll disclose names and addresses, and become 
two ordinary people instead of romantic creatures in an 
enchanted wood. But we’ll have one day more of 
make-pretend, shall we? Just one more!” 

“Oh, all right!” He laughed down at her. “If 
you’re so keen-” 

“It’s the intriguing mystery of it that appeals to 
me—just Guy and Deirdre—no silly surnames— 
nothing-” 

“Still, we’ll have to trot out those ‘silly surnames’ 
before I go. Think if I went not knowing who you 
were! Think if we never knew!” 

Deirdre smiled dreamily. 

“It would be something like ‘Evangeline’—we’d go 
on never knowing, until we were old, old people, and 
then I’d find you when you were dying, and we’d 
tell each other our names before you died-” 

“Oh, would we?” grumbled Guy. “It sounds to 
me a pretty cheerful programme. I don’t think I feel 
as if I could figure with success in a tragedy-No 







EMPTY 


6 i 


=—tell you what—I’d be like that old girl in history— 
what’s-her-name—who came to London to find her 
lover, and went through the streets yelling out ‘Gilbert!’ 
Can’t you see me going through Bamberly shrieking: 
‘Deirdre! Deirdre! Deirdre!’ ” 

They burst out laughing at the thought. Then Guy 
said swiftly: 

“Would you come if you heard me calling?” 

She looked at him with her whole soul in her shining 
eyes, 

“You know I would,” she said simply. 

They said good-bye standing under the giant beech- 
tree. 

“You’ll be here to-morrow—without fail?” 

“Of course I will-” 

“And you’ll tell me your name and address?” 

‘ ‘ Y es^—good-bye-’ ’ 

They looked into each other’s eyes—a very long, 
unsmiling, intense look. Then she turned and went. 
At the bend of the little path she paused and waved 
her hand. He was standing with his back to the tree, 
■watching her. The sunlight through the beech boughs 
threw lozenges of light on his dark hair, his slender 
height. The boy always remembered the picture of 
Deirdre as she stood there, with her smiling eyes, her 
long, swinging black plait. One second she stood 
looking at him— Then she was gone. 

IV 

The next morning Mrs. Bellamy came back. 
Deirdre met her just as she was going to Gilly’s Wood. 




62 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


She stepped out of the car, beautifully groomed 
and dressed, as usual—to-day in a pale fawn coat and 
skirt, and a cerise hat that suited her dark eyes and 
skin. 

“Hulloa!” said Deirdre in a friendly voice. 

She was friendly with all the world to-day—was 
she not going to Gilly’s Wood and Guy? 

Mrs. Bellamy looked at her curiously. Again the 
child’s beauty struck her—she was absolutely bloom¬ 
ing. She had changed—in some subtle, undefinable 
way—from the Deirdre of a week ago. Her eyes were 
vividly green, and shining like clear water. Her 
mouth, her hair—everything had somehow changed 
and gathered beauty. It was like an exquisite bud 
that overnight had sprung into lovely flowering. 

Mrs. Bellamy felt strangely moved; she could not 
have said why. She actually kissed her daughter— 
rather a cold and awkward kiss, but even those were 
rare from her. 

“You look very well,” she said curiously. “What 
have you been doing to yourself?” 

“Oh, nothing!” said Deirdre. But a glorious Some¬ 
thing shone in her eyes, lurked in the little shadow at 
the corner of her mouth. 

Mrs. Bellamy felt stirred and angry, and somehow 
rather wistful. Perhaps she remembered a day when 
she had looked like this, glowing with that subtle 
glory, that remote radiance. 

“Where are you off to?” she asked, lingering on 
the steps. 

“Gilly’s Wood—^it’s lovely there now- 



EMPTY 


63 


It was on the tip of Mrs. Bellamy’s tongue to tell 
her to wait until she changed her dress, and she would 

come too. Then she remembered- It was too 

late to try and start all over again- Too late— 

she ought to have remembered. 

The old thin-lipped, twisted smile flickered over her 
beautiful face. 

“Well, enjoy yourself,” she said, and turning, went 
indoors. 

Enjoy herself! Deirdre wanted to dance as she 
went along—^the beautiful morning! The deep, clear 
blue of the sky, flinging its mantel over the woods and 
hills! All along the country road were May trees in 
flower, hanging great, sweet, rose-scarlet banners of 
bloom over the fence. Lilac and laburnum, in heavy, 
drooping purple tassels, and flickering yellow tongues 
of flame. This was Lord Liscarney’s estate she was 
passing. There were the great wrought-iron gates 
that led to the house, with the two crouching stags 
guarding it on either side. There was the lodge—just 
like a fairy-tale cottage, all bulges and humps, with a 
clematis straggling over the porch. A very large 
and sleek black cat was sitting on the tiny bit of 
lawn as Deirdre passed, attending to his toilet 
operations. 

She chirruped to him, because the morning was so 
lovely, and she loved all the world. He paused for a 
second, the tip of his pink tongue like a rose-leaf 
between his teeth, and regarded her with superb and 
slant-eyed Oriental indifference. Deirdre burst out 
laughing—he looked so funny. She danced the next 




64 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


few steps, waving her arms above her head. Here 
was the stile, and the little footpath between the fields 
of long, deep grass and clover. Swallows soared and 
dipped over her head. White butterflies fluttered along, 
chasing each other in the sunshine, like a swirl of 
white rose-petals drifting on the wind. A Red Admiral 
was sunning himself on a moon daisy, flirting the 
gorgeous orange-red, black-splashed velvet of his 
wings. 

She plunged from the sun-dappled meadows into 
the cool dimness of Gilly’s Wood. Here all was still 
and dreaming and bird-haunted. Only the soft singing 
voice of the little stream broke the silence. The girl 
lingered a little on the tiny rustic bridge, looking down 
at the clear water hurrying along. At the bend of the 
tiny footpath leading to her clearing she paused, mis¬ 
chief in her eyes. He would be sitting under the big 
beech tree waiting for her, with his dark eyes watching 
the path. She would try and take him by surprise- 

Deirdre tip-toed forward, then paused, aghast. The 
little clearing was empty. . . . 

No, tall, slim figure, no gay voice that rang out in 
greeting. . . . 

Empty—quite empty. . . . 

Only for a second she paused. Then relief flooded 
her heart—her strained mouth relaxed. Of course he 
was hiding—probably behind the big beech tree, wait¬ 
ing to jump out and surprise her! She went on very 
softly, and tip-toed round the tree, laughter bubbling 
to her lips- 

There was no one there- 




EMPTY 


65 


Empty- 

Deirdre stood there staring, with tragic eyes. Then 
she called sharply: 

^‘Guy!” 

And again: 

“Guy! Guy!” 

Silence—silence that seemed to close in on her, to 
leer at her like a living, tangible thing. She threw out 
her hands, as if to push it away. That unbearable 
silence- 

Leering at her—pressing close—suffocating. . . . 
The girl suddenly felt icy cold. She sat down, a 
horrible sick dizziness swirling round her brain. . . . 

A few remote, pleasant sounds slowly penetrated 
through the unbearable silence. The lazy tinkle of 
sheep bells. The droning of the bees. A sheep-dog 
barking from Gilly’s Farm- 

It wasn’t silent any more, then. She could think 
now that heavy pall was lifted from her brain. She 
sat staring before her—staring into emptiness. 

Funnily enough, it never dawned upon her that 
he might come again—that some accident had kept 
him away. She knew, with a strange feeling of fatal¬ 
ness, that he had gone out of her life. That she would 
not see him again. Guy—Guy—^the name beat on her 
mind, like the ticking of a clock. His crooked curling 
smile, half mocking, half tender—never to see it again. 
His swift, amazing grace—the Winged Mercury, 
wonderfully poised and ardent—Guy- 

Empty—escape- 

Guy—Guy- 





66 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


That ticking in her brain—^beating, beating like small 
hammers- 

So they would never know each other’s name— 
they would go on, never knowing. He was gone out 
of her life, he and his laughter, and his swift strength, 
and leaping, hidden flame. 

Deirdre did not know how long she sat there—she 
did not cry—her eyes were dry and burning. Just 
sat there staring. She found herself praying—she 
who never prayed. It was hardly a prayer—it was a 

cry, a fierce challenge, flung into the face of God- 

“God help me to escape! You must help me to get 
out—to find him—I can’t go on living without him! 
God, if You really are listening, help me! Do some¬ 
thing to help me!” 

Guy—Guy- 

Empty. . . . 





CHAPTER III 


AUNT VI 

I 

Aunt Vi came down in June, on Deirdre’^ 
eighteenth birthday. She was absolutely shocked by 
the child’s white face—^the heavy mauve shadow be¬ 
neath the large eyes. 

“What have you been doing to Deirdre?” she asked 
her sister severely. “You’ll have the child seriously 
ill if you don’t look out. She looks done to death.” 

They were having their coffee underneath the huge 
cedar on the lawn. Beyond the pleasant shade were 
glimpses of smooth turf, sun-dappled, of flower-beds 
gay with butterfly phlox and grey-mauve spikes of 
lavender, and tall rosetted spires of hollyhocks. 

Aunt Vi, solid and large and comfortable, sprawled 
untidily in a white wicker chaise-longue. Mrs. 
Bellamy lay in a becoming attitude, her dark head 
against a pile of scarlet cushions. The thickly laced 
boughs overhead laid cool fingers of shadow on her 
white frock. 

She met her sister’s fierce and monocled glare with 
the innocent eyes of a hurt child. 

67 


68 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“I haven’t been doing anything to her, Vi. Don’t 
be absurd. All I know is that I met her one morning 
early in May, absolutely radiant—blooming with 
happiness. I remember how it struck me—that sort 
of light shining in her. And she came home after¬ 
wards like a ghost—a little white face, and heavy eyes— 
all the bloom knocked off her. It quite worried me 


'‘Um-” said Aunt Vi. She turned her shrewd 

gaze upon her sister’s face, and was surprised to find 
that she was sincere. It was not like Mrs. Bellamy to 
be worried by anything, particularly by her eldest 
daughter. “Where did she go that morning?” 

“To Gilly’s Wood—she told me-” 

“Um,” said Aunt Vi again, and lit a cigarette. 

Meanwhile she thought rapidly. Of course it was 
obvious that the child had not been alone in Gilly’s 
Wood. Still, that did not concern her. She blew 
a smoke ring, and said suddenly: 

“I want you to lend Deirdre to me for a bit-” 

“ ‘Lend her’ ?” Mrs. Bellamy was startled. She 
looked at her sister warily—sideways, under her lashes, 
like a nervous animal. 

Violet Strangways continued, affecting to watch 
her smoke rings as they curled on the still air in faint 
lilac whirls and eddies and spirals, but in reality watch¬ 
ing Mrs. Bellamy covertly. 

“Deirdre is eighteen to-day, Cynthie. It’s time 
she came out and had a little enjoyment like other 
girls. Frankly, she hasn’t had much so far, poor little 
soul—I should love to have her for as long as you can 






AUNT VI 


69 


spare her. It will do her good, and me too. I shouldn’t 
be surprised if she made quite a sensation—she’s 
beautiful, you know, Cynthia-” 

Mrs. Bellamy looked away, over the sunny lawn to 
the green tree-tops of the orchard, and the mellow 
red walls of the kitchen garden, where peach and plum 
and pear trees spread themselves in neat fans, nailed 
to the warm brick. She seemed to hesitate a little 
before speaking. 

“I suppose you think I’ve been a rotten mother, 
Vi?” 

Aunt Vi did not shilly-shally—it was characteristic 
of her that she came straight to the point. 

“Honestly, my dear,” she said bluntly, “you have 

Mrs. Bellamy still stared at the lawn and the flowers 
and the fruit trees—anywhere but at the florid, kindly 
face of her sister. 

“I know I have. Some women are born to be per¬ 
fect mothers—you, Vi, for instance, would have loved 
to have had about eight children. Instead of which 
you’ve got none. Funny, isn’t it? Do you remember 
how you used to love dolls and I hated them? Even 
then I used to prefer draping myself in the table¬ 
cloth and pretending to be the Queen of Sheba!” 
She laughed—a curiously flat, mirthless laugh. Vi 
wondered if she was not a little unhappy about it in 
her heart. “I married Ralph for his money. Don’t 
try and look shocked, Vi—you knew it all the time. 
I never loved him—I don’t think I’ve ever loved any¬ 
one properly in my whole life. It’s my fault, of course. 



70 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


My children hate me, and I hate them—I seem to 
have just missed everything in life .by some joke of 
the gods there be. Just missed everything-” 

“But you bargained for money,” said Violet Strang- 
ways bluntly. “And you’ve got it-” 

“Yes, I’ve got it. Although to tell you the truth, 
Ralph’s firm is suffering rather heavily. Still, that’s 

straying away from the point- You want Deirdre 

to stay with you, Vi?” 

Aunt Vi nodded, still watching Mrs. Bellamy in¬ 
tently. She felt vaguely that something in her sister 
was struggling, like a flower sending up shoots to the 
light. 

“I should be almost fond of Deirdre if it wasn’t 
that I was jealous of her.” She seemed to delight in 
being painfully frank. “I’m cursed with a violent 
temper and a jealous nature—well, I needn’t tell you 
that, Vi—you’ve seen enough of both. But Deirdre 
is so extraordinarily beautiful—much more so than 
I ever was—that I nearly hate her sometimes. Does 
that sound very dreadful, Vi?” 

“Only rather foolish,” said Vi gently. She pitied, 
while she despised her sister. 

“Besides that, she makes me look so old—a great 
girl of eighteen. That’s why I’ve kept her in the 
background so far, and I’m sure, Vi, that you are 
despising me thoroughly-” 

“I am,” said Vi amiably. “But I suppose you can’t 
help being a fool. Still, why you dress her so abomin¬ 
ably I don’t know-” 

“Oh, anything does for the nursery. And honestly. 







AUNT VI 


71 


the bills there are to meet in this household are dread^ 
ful. It is only by a miracle that I manage to dresa 
at all decently.” 

Mrs. Strangways studied the charming figure against 
the scarlet cushions—its exquisitely embroidered white 
gown, its pointed buckskin shoes. Her kind eyes 
hardened. 

“You're a bit of a little sweep, Cynthie,” she ob¬ 
served frankly. “You always have been—in streaks. 
I wonder why ?” 

“Oh well, every family has to have its black sheep,” 
said Cynthia. “And you have a much better time if 
you’re wicked-” 

“You’re not wicked—I shouldn’t mind that—^but 
you’re mean, and—^what’s the word I want?—small. 
That’s it—small in all your jealousies and outlooks 
and aims. I wish you weren’t.” 

Mrs. Bellamy did not seem to mind this frank 
summing up of her character. Instead she smiled a 
little maliciously. 

“Cheer up, Vi. Anyway, you make up for my 
failings. You’re big—in every way!” 

Aunt Vi remained placid. 

“But I’ve gone down immensely, my dear, since I 
used that patent medicine Mrs. Harcourt recom¬ 
mended. I lost over a stone in no time- Do you 

notice any difference?” 

Mrs. Bellamy’s half-shut eyes flickered rapidly over 
the large, comfortable figure in the wicker chaise- 
longue. Aunt Vi was a person who did not show to 
advantage in hot weather. Her hair was sticking in 




72 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


wet wisps to her forehead. She seemed to melt, rather 
than sit, into her chair, like a wobbly pink blanc¬ 
mange. 

Mrs. Bellamy was aware, complacently, sleekly, of 
her own coolness, of the slim lines of her, as she curled 
like a sinuous, purring kitten among her scarlet 
cushions. 

“I think there is certainly a difference,” she lied 
sweetly. “Have you tried those reducing crystals— 

I forget their name? Halloa, who’s this coming 
across the lawn?” 

She raised herself on one elbow and peered through 
the overhanging boughs that made a sort of green 
tent round them. 

Mrs. Strangways hastily followed up the scent. 

“I wish you could remember, Cynthie, I am always 
eager to try anything new. Haven’t you got the name 
anywhere?” 

“I believe I saw it in this week’s Tatler,” said Mrs. 
Bellamy. “Why—it’s Terence Liscarney—and Mr. 
Wycome—! Terry! Here we are under the cedar!” 

Two young men bent their heads and entered the 
cool shade. They blinked for a second—coming out 
of the glare into the green dimness. 

Mrs. Bellamy stretched out a hand. 

“How nice of you to come! Have you brought 
your racquets? Good! We’ll have a sett after you’ve 
rested a bit. Terry, you know my sister, don’t you?” 

“Oh, rather!” said Terry Liscarney smiling. “How 
cool it is here—I feel very lazy!” 

He was a very tall, big young man of about twenty- 


AUNT VI 


73 


three years old—not especially good-looking—a very 
fair specimen of the average Englishman. His eyes 
were his best feature—vividly blue eyes that looked 
at the world squarely and frankly, with a gay sort of 
camaradie. When he laughed—and Terry Liscarney 
seemed made for laughter—little wrinkles puckered 
up the corners of his eyes and twisted his large mouth 
into the funniest grimace in the world. His friend, 
Gervase Wycome, was a complete contrast. He was 
small and dark and slim, with a pointed, faunish face 
and narrow, nervy hands. On seeing him you thought 
that he must be rather clever—and he was, in an 
erratic, brilliant way. His caricatures were really 
clever—he had an uncanny way of casting one brief 
keen glance at you, then a rapid stroke or two, a dash, 
a wiggle—and there you were, mercilessly held up to 
the public eye on the point of Wycome s pencil. He 
was a little cruel in his caricatures, but to do him 
justice he never meant to be. Most people disliked 
or even perhaps feared him. Terry Liscarney did 
neither—he adored him. 

Aunt Vi liked Terry, but she did not quite know 
how to take Gervase Wycome. Anything that was 
not materialistic and comfortably ordinary vaguely 
disturbed Aunt Vi. She felt all the time that Wycome 
was laughing at her, and no one likes to be laughed 
at. She would have disliked him still more if she 
had seen the caricature he had furtively made of her 
on the back of an old envelope. It was only four 
strokes, and a wild scrawl, but it was Aunt Vi to the 
life—her fat, billowy face, the monocle that gave her 


74 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


such an oddly rakish air, the strangling wisps of 

hair-Certainly rather uncanny, this gift of Gervase 

Wycome’s. 

They drifted into a lazy conversation. Wycome 
did not like Mrs. Bellamy, so he relapsed into one of 
his morose, brooding silences. Mrs. Strangways 
seemed to melt even more into her chair—she sat 
limply, like a large putty Chinese god. So the con¬ 
versation was mainly between Liscarney and Cynthia 
Bellamy. The latter seemed to have gained added 
brilliance. She looked beautiful, and was even witty 
in a delicate, airy way. Terry caught the flashing 
ball of wit she threw him—caught it, but failed to 
throw it back. He just sat listening, with his eyes 
admiringly on the lovely face against the scarlet cush¬ 
ions. Mrs. Bellamy liked this. She was the sort 
of woman who, given an admiring audience and no 
one to eclipse her, manages to shine with unusual 
brilliance. 

Gervase Wycome watched them, his faunish face 
a little sneering. Suddenly the sneer was wiped oflF it 
—it became intent. Aunt Vi looked to see the cause of 
the intentness—standing just outside the Cedar’s 
drooping shade was Deirdre. 

Deirdre, with her swinging black plait—Deirdre, 
with her oddly weary eyes. 

Gervase gave a small, excited exclamation and began 
hunting wildly in the pockets of his blazer. Terence 
Liscarney looked round, and Aunt Vi’s shrewd gaze 
saw something leap up like a flame in his blue eyes, 
and as swiftly die out. Mrs. Bellamy frowned, and 


AUNT VI 


75 

her lips suddenly became one thin line. Aunt Vi was 
the first to speak. 

“Come in out of the heat,” she called. “You’ll 
get sunstroke without a hat!” 

Deirdre came, rather unwillingly. Both young men 
leapt up to ofiFer her their seats. She shook her head 
smiling, and sat down on the arm of her aunt’s chair. 
She looked at her mother rather apprehensively. 

“I thought you were alone,” she said in her rather 
boyish voice. “I came to ask you if Livvy and I may 
take our tea on the Downs. May we? For a treat 
for my birthday?” 

“If you like,” said Mrs. Bellamy ungraciously. “It 
will be very hot up there-” 

Terry Liscarney spoke for the first time. 

“Is it your birthday? How awfully jolly! How 
old are you?” 

She looked at him with instant liking. 

“Eighteen—it seems very old!” 

“Does it? Ah, wait till you get an ancient bird 
like me!' A picnic on the Downs—that soimds rather 
jolly-” 

“Awfully jolly!” she said demurely, and shot him 
a mischievous glance. 

Mrs. Bellamy said petulantly: 

“Isn’t she a great big thing? Eighteen! It doesn’t 
seem possible.” 

She thought she heard Wycome chuckle, and looked 
round sharply, but he was furiously busy with a stub 
of pencil and an old envelope. She continued, trying 
to sound more gracious- 




76 


THE SHORELEwSS SEA 


“I don’t think you’ve met before, have you, Terry? 
My daughter, Deirdre—Lord Liscarney—Mr. Wy- 
come-” 

Deirdre nodded carelessly. She rather liked the 
look of the tall, fair young man, with his smooth 
tawny hair and his boyish eyes. There was a gay 
fellowship in those blue eyes, and something else which 
seemed to lurk behind the gaiety—something she 
could not quite see and which vaguely roused her 
curiosity. 

Aunt Vi was speaking: 

“Why don’t you take your picnic to Gilly’s Wood? 
I thought that was a favourite spot of yours.” 

Gervase Wycome’s uncannily keen eyes saw a little 
flicker of pain shadow the translucent eyes. It was 
a mere flicker—a sort of mental wincing from a hurt 
suddenly laid bare. He sensed tragedy—yet what 
tragedy could there be in the mention of a wood— 
Gilly’s Wood? He sat watching her, his nervy hands 
twitching. He saw the fine courage of her smile. 

“It used to be,” said Deirdre Bellamy. 

Suddenly she remembered it all as vividly as if it 
had been yesterday—they had stood looking at each 
other, very intently, very simply, like two children 
taking grave-eyed stock of each other. She saw his 
thin, dark-skinned face, with its ardent young mouth, 
its audacious eyes—the sunlight falling in golden 
lozenges and patches on his dark head- 

“Would you come if you heard me calling?” 

“You know I would . . 

Deirdre suddenly got up—she could not stay there 




AUNT VI 


77 


any longer. She wanted to get away from them all— 
her mother, Aunt Vi, Terence Liscarney, with his gay 
eyes, Wycome, hunched over his old envelope and 
stub of pencil. She managed to say fairly naturally: 

“Well, I must go—Livvy’s waiting for me-—” 

“Yes, run along,” said her mother. “What about 
a sett now, Terry?” 

Terence Liscarney had sprung to his feet, he had 
grabbed up Aunt Vi’s rose-lined parasol, and unfurled 
it over Deirdre’s head. 

“You’ll get sunstroke, you know, without a hat— 
sure to! Come on—I’ll hold this over you to the 
house.” 

She found herself marching over the sunny lawn 
with him, her thoughts revolving in odd little circles 
—round and round—like a squirrel in a cage. 

Absurd little circles- 

She heard Terry talking, and managed to smile at 
him mechanically once or twice. 

“I believe you hazre got a touch of sun,” she heard 
him say. “Go in and sit down and I’ll get you some 
water.” 

She said “The Tennis-” very feebly, but he 

marched her into the cool drawing-room, and insisted 
on bringing her a glass of water. The circles stopped 
and the mist cleared from her brain. She smiled at 
him. 

“You are good! I believe I did get a touch-” 

“Of course you did”—he was very severe- 

“Feeble thing to dash round without a hat.” 

“I suppose it is—still, I hate hats.” 







78 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Rotten things, I own! But on a day like this-’’ 

“Well, ril wear one on the Downs.” 

“Ah! the picnic. I’ve a good mind to come too— 
just to see what you do!” 

“You’ve got to go and play tennis-” 

His face clouded, then brightened. 

“Never mind—you can invite me for another day. 
Go on—now! So that you can’t get out of it I” 

Deirdre laughed—she began to like him even more. 

“Some day next week then-” 

''Which day? Come on! I’m going to get a real, 
pukka invitation while I’m at it.” 

“Tuesday—on the Downs-” 

“Cheerioh! Count on me! Will there be buns, 
or only bread and jam?” 

“Buns!” she promised. “Buns with pink sugar 
on top. You know, the sort that melt through the 
paper. You can carry those!” 

“Thanks!” He wrinkled his nose comically. “I 
can see I’m going to be made into a beast of burden 
in this act. Never mind, I shall eat them all when I 
get there! This is going to be some picnic!” 

As a matter of fact it was destined never to take 
place. . . . 

Out under the cedar tree Mrs. Bellamy looked at 
her sister. Wycome had gone to put up the net and 
find Terence. Aunt Vi looked back at her with the 
faded, rather protruding eyes that saw so much. 

“Well,” she said placidly, “a nice boy—that Ter¬ 
ence. Seemed rather taken with Deirdre, I thought. 
As for that other man—Mr. Wycome—^he quite 






AUNT VI 


79 


upsets me. I always feel as if I had a smut on my 
nose when he looks at me-” 

Mrs. Bellamy picked up her racquet and stood 
drumming on the strings with one impatient hand. 
Then she said abruptly: 

“You can have Deirdre if you like, Violet. She 
is getting too much for me. We’ll arrange it all 
afterwards.” 

Mrs. Strangways watched her as she walked away 
towards the court, swinging her racquet carelessly. 
A satisfied smile creased her kind, pussy-cat face. 

“Too pretty for her, she means! Oh well, it’s all 
for the ,best. Now I’ll be able to give the child a 
really good time, bless her. Dear me, how I shall 
enjoy it—having her all to myself!” 

She heaved herself up from her chair, and lumbered 
heavily over the lawn towards the house. She caught 
sight of Deirdre walking down the path that led to 
the orchard gate. Terence was on one side of her, 
Wycome on the other, carrying a spirit-lamp in a 
basket. Olivia (swamped beneath the Mushroom) 
had a fat terrier pup under one arm, who was uttering 
staccato squeaks of protest, and a large, greasy paper 
bag under the other. They stopped at the gate, still 
talking. Deirdre was laughing—Aunt Vi saw her face 
under the broad hat all dimpling with mirth. “Bless 
her,” she thought comfortably, “that’s what she wanted 
—some gay young people to spoil her.” Her thoughts 
glided into a pleasant backwater. “We shall have to 
have Terence Liscarney to see us in town—I wonder 
—it would be a very good thing-” 




8 o 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


She left her pleasant conjectures to call to them: 

“Cynthia’s waiting!” 

Liscarney started and looked slightly ashamed. 
Gervase’s mocking smile grew a shade deeper. Aunt 
Vi took her parasol from Terence and opened it over 
her head. It looked incongruously like a rose leaf 
fluttering over a large white elephant. 

Terence pulled the puppy’s velvety ears, and smiled 
at Deirdre. 

“Well, cheer-oh,” he said. '‘I hope you have a 
jolly time, and don’t forget Tuesday. Save a bun or 
two for me, Olivia-” 

Olivia enormously grinned. 

She liked the big fair young man very much, but 
she was not sure that she did not like the small dark 
one even better. There was something in his dark, 
restless eyes that appealed to her. They looked as if 
they were going to laugh, but decided to sneer instead. 
But they only sneered for some people, she had dis¬ 
covered. When they looked at her they were very 
gentle, and there was a smile in them. She smiled 
back, her pink mouth stretching to an unbelievable 
width. 

They stood and watched the two young men go off 
down the paved path, with its straggling border of 
Mrs. Sinkin’s pinks—Olivia clasping her puppy, 
Deirdre looking thoughtfully after Terence’s big, 
broad-shouldered figure. Aunt Vi, her hot face beam¬ 
ing under the rose-lined parasol. 

She turned, and caught the girl by the hand. 

“Such news, darling! You’re coming to London 



AUNT VI 


8 i 


with me, and Fm going to bring you out, and give 
you such a good time! What do you say to that?” 

Deirdre said nothing—she stared. Suddenly her 
eyes filled and her mouth quivered. 

“Really and truly? She says so?” 

“Really and truly! Will you enjoy it, Deirdre?” 

“Oh, Aunt Vi I” Impulsively, she seized and kissed 
her. “I knew you’d help me I I said so! Oh, if you 
knew what it meant to me! I—I’ve prayed for it! 
Escape r 

Suddenly she was off, tearing down the path, long 
legs flying, long black plait swinging—Olivia, the 
puppy bumping against her ribs, followed. She caught 
her up some way down the road. 

“Oh, Deirdre!” said Olivia, ''do stop!” 

At the mournful voice Deirdre paused, swinging her 
basket with a force that threatened to shoot the spirit- 
lamp and the saucepan on to the road. 

“Was that true what Aunt V-vi said? Are you 
really g-g-going away? Oh dear, how beastly it will 
b-be without you!” 

Deirdre was smitten with swift compunction at her 
own joy. 

“Oh, Livvy darling. I’ll be back soon. Or if I’m 
not you shall come up to me. But, Livvy, it’s my 
dream come true! Escape, you know! Getting out 
of this to see the world! Fancy, I shall see St. Paul’s! 
And Drury Lane! And Bond Street!” 

“But I shan’t!” said poor Olivia mournfully. 

“Yes, you shall—very soon, Livvy dear! Oh, 
I’m sorry to be so happy, but it’s so perfectly beau- 


82 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


tiful! Give me a hug, darling old girl, and let’s be 
happy!” 

They embraced solemnly and tightly in the middle 
of the road, looking at each other sentimentally. The 
puppy, wedged in between the greasy paper bag (which 
he consoled himself by licking) and the spirit-lamp 
basket, uttered a small and squeaky howl, which made 
them laugh. 

“Put him down, Livvy,” said Deirdre. “There are 
no motors along here, and we’re just going to turn 
off into the fields-” 

She started off again, running, skipping, swinging 
her basket. Words seemed to beat time to her dancing 
feet. 

Guy—Guy—Guy- 

Escape—escape- 

She swung her basket up in an ecstasy of joy. The 
saucepan shot out with a crash into the ditch, and the 
sugar-topped biscuits, which had been ingeniously 
packed inside it, scattered far and wide among the cow 
parsley and the long grass. Olivia hurried up, burst¬ 
ing with laughter, and the two sat down in the ditch 
to forget their troubles in picking up the biscuits. . . . 

That evening as they were walking back through 
the summer dusk to Greyfriars, Gervase Wycome sud¬ 
denly rummaged in his pockets and fished out an old 
envelope. 

“What do you think of that?’’ he asked Terence. 

Terence looked at it. A few hasty strokes and a 
bold line or two—^but it was Deirdre sitting there with 




AUNT VI 


B3 


her long legs crossed, smiling her brave, fine smile, 
with the little shadow of pain in her eyes. Gervase 
had just managed to catch it before it went. Silence 
for a minute, then Terence said slowly: 

“I wonder why the kid was looking like that?’’ 

Gervase said nothing—he was looking at the lighted 
windows of the little fairy-tale lodge that glowed like 
goblin lanterns through the blue gauze of the twilight. 

“Do you want this?” asked Terence suddenly. 

“Not particularly,” said Wycome. 

He watched Terence out of the corner of his eye, 
saw him put the envelope carefully into his note-case, 
and back again into his breast pocket. 

Mr. Wycome found this rather disturbing. 

II 

It was all very exciting. 

Deirdre found everything connected with her flit¬ 
ting tinged with thrilling romance, from the pair of 
shoes which were to have the honour of carrying her 
for the first time on London pavements to the im¬ 
posing new trunk which stood in her little bedroom, 
looking patronisingly at the shabby carpet and the deal 
washstand. 

Aunt Vi had departed for town the next day in a 
great state of excitement and heat to get things ready 
for her niece. She had left parting instructions, de¬ 
livered one minute before the train started. 

“Don’t get any new clothes, or anything. Can’t 
get a decent rag down here. Your father told me to 
get you everything you want—he has given me carte 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


34 

blanche. So we’ll have a lovely time in town, fitting 
you out from top to toe. Good-bye, dear”—^the guard 
waved his flag—“Tuesday, and I’ll meet you at Vic¬ 
toria. Don’t forget”—the train was moving—“not to 
buy a thing! So much—cheaper—in—London!” 

And Aunt Vi’s beaming face was whirled out of 
sight. 

Tuesday was there in no time. The week seemed to 
skurry along—all the days tumbled over each other 
in their hurry. Monday night—a disturbed one, as 
Olivia came in, in her nightgown, at two o’clock in 
the morning, and tearfully insisted on sleeping peril¬ 
ously on the edge of Deirdre’s narrow bed for the rest 
of the night. 

Tuesday morning—^the old routine of bathing and 
dressing and eating—(or making a pretence of eating, 
anyway). Then the motor came to the door to take 
them to the station. The new and imposing trunk was 
carried downstairs and strapped on to the luggage rack 
at the back. Olivia and Roly were coming to see her 
off. Her mother was in bed—she went in to say good¬ 
bye. 

The sunlight danced on the pale grey walls, glanced 
on the fat little gilt Cupids holding up the canopy of 
the bed. Their plump faces seemed to smirk at her. 

Mrs. Bellamy lay in bed, her breakfast tray beside 
her, her letters tossed over the satin counterpane. Her 
face, between the heavy dark plaits, was very tired and 
rather drawn. 

Deirdre did not even dislike her just then—she only 
felt a sort of pity for her—a pity that her life should 


AUNT VI 


85 


be so narrow and small, hemmed in as it was by Self- 
love, and Pleasure, and Wealth. Just one long round of 
getting dressed, and paying calls, and entertaining, and 
going to sleep in the brocade-hung French bed. There 
was no newness in life for her—she was not standing 
on the threshold of the world, looking out at all the 
beauty beckoning to her, as Deirdre was. She felt a 
sort of pity, and at the same time a little contempt. 

“Fve come to say good-bye,” she said dutifully. 

Mrs. Bellamy looked at the tall young figure in its 
cheap navy serge coat and skirt, at the flower-like face 
beneath the plain straw hat. In a week the child’s face 
seemed to have filled out again, to have lost its hollows 
and tired expression, going back once more to its old 
curving beauty. 

‘‘Good-bye,” she said unemotionally. “Give my love 
to Violet.” 

Deirdre bent over and kissed the soft cheek. She 
wished desperately that she could say something warm 
and loving and impulsive, or clasp long young arms 
round her mother. But she couldn’t. The barrier 
between the two was unsurmountable. 

So she just said: 

“The car’s waiting—I’ll write—good-bye,’' and 
pressing Mrs. Bellamy’s hand awkwardly, she went out. 

The room was very still after she had gone. . . . 

Mr. Bellamy was to take Deirdre up to town. He 
looked nervous and unhappy, and fidgeted all the way, 
drawing out his watch and putting it back again with 
a “plop!” like a conjurer. As they passed the stile that 
led to Gilly’s Wood, Deirdre bent forward to look at 


86 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


it—the green tree tops were waving gently against a 
pale turquoise sky. 

Olivia pressed her hand stickily. It was all like a 
dream, and she wanted to laugh. 

At the station Mr. Bellamy gave her an armful of 
magazines, and repeated the “tug and plop!” pro¬ 
cess, comparing his own watch with the grimy clock 
over the bookstall. 

Deirdre looked at him with tranquil, amused eyes. 
She felt rather sorry for him, too—in fact, she was 
sorry for everyone who was not going forth like she 
was, a young knight errant, ready to conquer the 
world! She was glad when the train came in. It 
steamed in leisurely, as if it knew it was late, but 
didn’t care a hang. Mr. Bellamy made a dart for an 
empty carriage, and shot himself into it, sinking with 
a sigh of relief into a comer seat. Deirdre lingered on 
the platform. Roly, after a careful glance round to 
see that no one was looking, nearly strangled her with 
a large hug, at the same time pressing a dirty match¬ 
box, that contained four very fine “Woolly Bear” cater¬ 
pillars, having an orgy of lettuce leaf within their 
cardboard abode, into her hand. 

Olivia could say nothing—she just looked at her 
sister with tragic brown eyes, and squeezed her hand. 

“Good-bye,” said Deirdre. “You’ll be good, won’t 
you? Don’t give Miss Jones any trouble, will you, 
Livvy? Thanks awfully for the Woolly Bears, Roly 
dear. I shall keep them in my bedroom. Good-bye 
—do write to me!” 

Mr. Bellamy poked his head out of the window. 


AUNT VI 


87 

“Get in, Deirdre! The train’s just going! Be 
quick—you’ll be left behind 1” 

She got in to please him, and sat down in her corner. 
Roly climbed on to the step and made faces at her. 
The guard waved his ’green flag—the train, slowly 
and with great dignity, was gliding out of the station. 
Olivia and Roly trotted alongside, keeping up a run¬ 
ning fire of parting injunctions. 

“Don’t forget to feed them every day, will you, 
Deirdre? They’ll die if you don’t!” 

“Give Auntie my love, and—oh, do send me some 
Fuller’s chocolates—I like the hard kind best-” 

“They like a little exercise, and”—the train was 
gathering speed—“lettuce leaf—will do—to—feed— 
them! Or cabbage—for—a change!” 

“Good-bye—good-bye—hard ones, mind!—only— 
once—a—day—cabbage. Good-bye!” 

They were whirled out of sight—Roly, his grubby 
little face beaming, Olivia, lanky and untidy-looking 
in her gingham dress, the Mushroom hanging back 
from her tragic face by its flapping elastic. 

Out of sight- 

Escape—escape! 

Deirdre settled down in her corner. Two other 
people had got into their carriage—an old lady, carry¬ 
ing a pug dog with a lolling pink tongue, and an im¬ 
maculate young man in a grey suit, who was reading 
The Motor-Car. He was staring at her rather curi¬ 
ously, she thought, and she flushed a little, putting 
Roly’s match-box into her pocket. Mr. Bellamy was 
already shrouded in The Times. She looked out of 



88 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


the window, at Bamberly Parish Church, sunning its 
grey walls among its rock-haunted elms, at the cricket 
field, where the mowing machine made a pleasant, 
sleepy whir on the morning air, at the cottage by the 
level crossing, with its garden aglow with phlox and 
fat pink Canterbury bells. 

Escape—escape—escape- 

The train seemed to be singing it as it rushed along. 
She turned round and met the young man’s curious 
gaze again. She picked up Pearson's Magazine and 
tried to read it. The print danced up and down before 
her eyes—she could not have made sense of a single 
paragraph. 

Escape—escape—escape- 

She put it down again, and turned to her window. 
The train was gathering speed—hurtling through 
green leafy tunnels, between sweeps of sunlit pastures 
and little copses. Deirdre looked out at it all with un¬ 
seeing eyes. Names seemed to be slipping in between 
her and the landscape—vague, delightful, disturbing 
names- 

Piccadilly—T unis—Marble Arch—^Venice—Gran¬ 
ada—^all waiting for her, gloriously waiting. 

That brought her back to Guy. She thought 
happily: 

“Fm going to find him! I feel it! At every thea¬ 
tre and dance I go to I shall look for him! It will 
be just like Longfellow’s ^Evangeline’—though, of 
course, it won’t end unhappily-” 

The supreme confidence of Youth!- 

She relapsed into delightful dreams. 





AUNT VI 


89 


She and Guy together—always together—going to¬ 
gether to sunny lands, seeing warm-skinned dusky 
faces, hearing strange forgotten tongues. They would 
be so happy—so very, very happy. Stray little pic¬ 
tures drifted through her imagination—she and Guy 
in a Persian rose-garden—sailing up the Nile, as Cleo¬ 
patra had done centuries ago—buying violets, and 
fragrant jonquils, and great bunches of sun-warmed 
narcissus, from one of the old, brown-faced wrinkled 
flower-sellers on the steps of the Plaza de Spagna. She 
did not think about Love—it never entered into her 
childish dreams. They would just be together, as it 
had been decreed by Destiny since the beginning of all 
things. And they would be happy—oh, so absurdly, 
gloriously happy! . . . 

It seemed in an incredibly short time that the train 
ran into Victoria Station. 

She leant out of the window, sniffing the smoky air 
as if it was the nectar of the gods. All the porters, 
waiting in a line—and the rows of taxis—she won¬ 
dered hopefully if they would take a taxi. And there 
was Aunt Vi, very wonderfully dressed in grey, wav¬ 
ing her absurd little sunshade like a Morse flag. 

The next few minutes were dream-like. Her father, 
after handing her thankfully into Mrs. Strangways’ 
charge, faded away into the crowd—the fat, shiny 
trunk was dug out of the melee in the luggage van— 
Aunt Vi, chattering like a monkey in a palm tree, led 
the way to the waiting car, a big, shining, sleek, grey 
Daimler—(no taxi, then, thought Deirdre regret¬ 
fully). 


90 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Then they were off, sliding through the crowded 
streets with a skill which delighted Deirdre. She looked 
all round the roomy grey and silver interior—at the 
various fascinating little switches, which controlled the 
electric light, and shot forth from some magical source 
a tiny glass-topped table, just as if it were a fairy¬ 
tale equipage. Then she met the shrewd, kind gaze 
of Aunt Vi’s pale blue eyes from beneath the grey hat, 
and suddenly flung herself impulsively into her arms. 

“Aunt Vi, darling, it is so ripping to be with you! 
It’s just like a dream! Fancy being in London! Look 
at all those ’buses—can we go on top of a ’bus one day. 
Auntie?” 

“As often as you like, my dear. If you knew how 
I loved having you! It will be just like having a 
daughter of my own-” 

“You perfect old darling! I say, when shall we 
start shopping?” 

Aunt Vi laughed at her excitement. 

“This afternoon, if you’re not tired, darling. And 
this evening I’ve booked two stalls for ‘Cairo.’ ” 

Deirdre heaved an ecstatic sigh. 

“I think you’re going to spoil me. Auntie Vi-” 

“Well, I think it’s time someone ought to! And 
I’m going to pack all the spoiling, and fun, and laughter 
I can into the time you’re with me. Look, there’s 
Marble Arch-” 

Deirdre looked, and suddenly she was glad that there 
were waving trees, and green grass, and gay flower¬ 
beds in the midst of London’s towering buildings and 
grimy chimney pots. 





AUNT VI 


91 


“When I’m a little homesick for the country,” she 
explained, “I can go there, and walk on the grass, 
and sit under the trees. And I should love to sail a 
boat on the Round Pond, but I suppose Fm too big 
for that now-” 

She sounded so wistfully regretful that Mrs. Strang- 
ways could not contain her laughter. 

“Never mind, darling—you’ll have other things to 
make up for it. Here we are—^home-” 

The Daimler stopped before a charming white house 
in a fashionable street off the park. It was not so big 
as its neighbours, but it had a sort of charm that had 
attracted Mrs. Strangways when she bought it. Houses 
are the same as people—some attract, others repel. 
Deirdre loved 64, Clement Street at once—it was all 
so fresh and immaculate, with its green sunblinds and 
the gay window-boxes, full of straggling pink gera¬ 
niums and stiff, demure marguerites. 

She still felt as if she was walking in a delightful, 
unsubstantial dream, and that any moment she might 
wake up to the darkness, and the glimmering square 
of her window, and the wind in the wistaria leaves 
outside. She followed Aunt Vi through a big, cool 
hall, up the wide oak stairs that shone with a beautiful, 
subdued lustre. Aunt Vi threw open a door and drew 
her in. 

“This is your room, dear—mine is next door,, so 
you won’t be lonely.” 

It was not at all like the green and gold room at 
home, but it was all white wood and crisp chintzes 
patterned in quaint spires of foxgloves. There was 




92 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


a low white bookcase, invitingly full, and a couch by 
the window full of plump, squashy black cushions, and 
a dull blue china bowl of dumpy, greeny-orange migno¬ 
nette on the dressing-table. 

Deirdre went to the window and looked at the green 
tree tops of the Park, and the wrought-iron gates of 
the house opposite, and a little florist’s boy who was 
going whistling along with a tray of scarlet peonies 
on his head. She watched him all down the street, he 
and his flaming flowers. . . . 

Then she turned—Aunt Vi was watching her with 
affectionate, anxious eyes. 

“Aunt Vi, I just love this room, and you, and 
London! Why, it’s just like the country—the green 
trees, and the mignonette, and the foxglove chintz! 
I’ve never had such a darling room before!’’ She 
took off her hat, running her fingers through the 
heavy black masses of her hair. “Do you know, I 
think London is such a friendly place! You could 
never feel lonely in it, because it sort of makes friends 
with you. It’s a witch—no wonder Englishmen 
abroad long for it! Aunt Vi darling, I want to ex¬ 
plore London.” 

“You shall—do whatever you like, Deirdre^— 
London and I want to make you happy.” 

“You couldn’t help it if you tried. You’re one of 
those comfy people who exude happiness. Not the 

prickly sort, like-” She stopped short, and bent 

her face over the mignonette. “I’m going to be happy 
—I’m going to be happy-!” 

Lunch—a delightful little meal, served in the Chinese 




AUNT VI 


93 


dining-room, with its bright yellow walls, with panels 
let in at intervals of orange trees and mandarines and 
tipsy pagodas leaning over sleepy rivers, spanned by 
lotus-hung bridges. 

Deirdre did not talk very much—she let Aunt Vi 
chatter—just sat there taking in the shining silver 
and glass, reflected in the polished wood, the big silver 
bowl of violets in the centre. Her thoughts went to 
Roly and Olivia, having their meal in the schoolroom, 
off common china and indifferent napery, and her 
mouth hardened. She was out of it herself, anyway, 
and she didn’t mean to return. . . . Escape! 

Ill 

After lunch they got their things on, and at Deirdre’s 
request took the ’bus to Regent Street. 

Aunt Vi could not bear ’buses—they shook and 
jolted her—^but for Deirdre’s sake she bore it bravely. 
Indeed it was worth it—seeing her vivid, eager face, 
her restless, excited eyes. People looked after her in 
the street, stared at her in the ’bus. Aunt Vi noticed 
with relief that she was supremely unconscious of it 
all. Yet one could not help looking—^her face was al¬ 
most startling in its arresting beauty. 

“If people stare at her now,” thought Aunt Vi 
nervously, “in that cheap coat and skirt and little 
sailor hat, what on earth will they do when I’ve 
dressed her ?” 

Aloud she said: 

“There’s no time to get things made for you— 
you want them at once. Afterwards we’ll take you to 


94 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


my dressmaker’s, but to-day ready-made things will 
have to do-” 

They walked down Regent Street—Regent Street 
looking its best in the warm sunshine. Deirdre was 
not allowed more than one look in every shop—she 
resolved privately to come by herself and spend hours 
shop-gazing. At Liberty’s she paused—fascinated, 
bewildered. All the colour and beauty and fine work¬ 
manship in the world seemed to be massed behind the 
plate-glass windows. There was a length of shimmer¬ 
ing rose-scarlet stuff, draped round a huge Chinese 
god—gold-banded cushions, tall jade jars—sandal¬ 
wood and silk, ivory, and soft-toned Persian rugs- 

Beauty. . . . 

‘'Come along, dear,” said Aunt Vi, “we have such 
a lot to dp-” 

She tore herself away reluctantly. There were 
fresh wonders ahead, though. A large jeweller’s— 
chains of jade or crystal, trays of unset diamonds, 
coldly flawless, great rubies and emeralds set in dull 
gold, opals in platinum like clotted moonshine. They 
glowed like fire in the sunshine. 

''Oh!” said Deirdre, her nose against the glass. 

A man standing near glanced casually at her and 
smiled at her childish delight. 

Aunt Vi was impatient. 

“You can come again to-morrow, darling! Do 
hurry I” 

Deirdre turned, her face radiant. 

“Here I am. Auntie dear. But isn’t it wonderful? 
Those emeralds—I like them best of all, I think. And 





AUNT VI 


95 

that big sapphire star set round with pearls! I should 
like—oh—look at that flower shop!” 

More beauty—expensive beauty—long-stemmed 
giant roses, velvety scarlet, great blowsy peonies, deli¬ 
cate love-in-a-mist lilies of the valley and Russian 
violets, strange tawny orchids, white-throated, purple 
flecked- 

This time Mrs. Strangways kept a firm grip on her 
niece’s arm. 

“If we are going to do any shopping to-day you 
can’t stop and window-gaze. You’ve no idea the things 
you want I Of course, we can’t get them all to-day, 
but a few, anyway-” 

They entered a big store—were whirled from floor 
to floor in a fascinating lift. The next few hours were 
dream-like. Deirdre remembered buying silk stockings 
—enough, to her bewildered eyes, to last a lifetime— 
delightfully unpractical underclothes, crepe de chine, 
or finest lawn, embroidered evidently by fairy hands, 
finely tucked or scalloped-—a rose-pink kimono, em¬ 
broidered with drooping wistaria and a flight of silver 
storks. 

They left the stores and took a taxi—were whirled 
to other big shops. A shoe shop—dizzily she remem¬ 
bered trying on and buying pair after pair of heavenly 
shoes—suede, buckskin, crocodile—a pair of black 
satin with scarlet heels—absurd little rosy mules, lined 
with white fur. Then to a bewildering place which 
turned out to be a hat shop—^vistas of grey carpet, 
gilt Louis XV chairs, an elegant, extremely terrifying 
apparition in black satin who, after conferring with 




96 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Aunt Vi, mysteriously returned with an armful of 
heaven-inspired hats, which it dawned upon Deirdre’s 
dazed brain were meant for her. A large white one, 
which looked absurdly simple and turned out to be 
horribly dear—a thing which seemed to be composed 
out of a wisp of tulle and a huge rose—it all struck 
Deirdre as extremely funny. She looked at herself 
in the long glass, the hat on her head—a Mercury¬ 
like, winged affair—so absurdly contrasting with 
her simple coat and skirt that she could not help 
laughing. 

“How awfully funny I look, don’t I?” she said 
childishly. She looked again at her tall, slim reflec¬ 
tion, and giggled softly to herself. 

They made their last visit, where Deirdre submitted 
to being tried on over and over again, her mind stray¬ 
ing longingly to Bath buns and ices. 

Only once did she really emerge from the sort of 
stupor which possessed her. Then it was at the sight 
of an evening dress which the show-woman was show¬ 
ing to Aunt Vi. It was the exact colour of her eyes 
—a clear, deep green, the skirt slightly wired, spread¬ 
ing like a flower. 

“I want that,” she said. 

Aunt Vi, whose ideas of evening wear for the jeune 
file strayed innocently in the direction of white tulle 
and rosebuds, demurred: 

“Isn’t green a little old for you, dear?” 

The show-woman took Deirdre’s side. 

“But no, madam—green was a most fashionable 
colour—would the young lady try it on?” 


AUNT VI 


97 

The young lady would—after one look at her in it, 
Aunt Vi gave in. 

Then it was home, and tea in the cool, flower-filled 
drawing-room. Presiding over the tea-tray. Aunt Vi 
ceased to be the automatic stranger she had been all 
the afternoon—absorbed in the purchase of afternoon 
frocks, choosing with furrowed brow, between two 
hats—and became herself again, fatly placid, solidly 
comfortable. 

“I’m tired,” she said, heaving a gigantic sigh, “ex¬ 
traordinarily tired.” 

Deirdre looked at her sharply. There was a certain 
grey look about Mrs. Strangways’ usually florid face 
—it seemed so tired and drawn that the girl felt a 
stab of swift fear. 

“Darling, do you feel all right?” 

“Yes—yes—it’s nothing. We’ve had such a busy 
afternoon—a rush always makes me a little queer. 
And all those stairs at Whiteleys! My heart isn’t what 
you would call good, and stairs are so tiring—I wish 
we’d taken the lift now.” 

Deirdre was all compunction. 

“Will you go and rest. Aunt Vi? Please, please do. 
You mustn’t go to the theatre to-night-” 

“Mustn’t go? Fiddlesticks! A cup of tea and a 
rest, and it will pass off at once.” 

To Deirdre’s relief this proved the case, and in a 
short time Mrs. Strangways was looking her normal 
self, and chatting away in her usual voluble style. 

“Well,” she said, smiling, “are you pleased with 
yourself ?” 



98 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Rather! But, Auntie, I feel horribly conscience- 
stricken—Fm sure Fve made Daddy bankrupt!’^ 

Aunt Vi made a small sound, rather deadened with 
sandwich, between a snort and a cluck. 

“Rubbish! You’re only getting what you ought 
to have! And you wouldn’t have had anything unless 
I had whisked you away-” 

“Like a fairy godmother. Aunt Vi, you’re a darling! 
Are you sure Fm not worrying you to death?” 

“My darling childie, you’re giving me the treat of 
my life! By rights I should have had half a dozen 
daughters to fuss round, but instead Fm a lonely old 
woman, living by herself in a large, dull house. Since 
your uncle died I have been very lonely sometimes.” 

Deirdre, whose sole and blurred recollection of her 
American uncle was of someone with a loud voice, 
large spectatcles, and pockets full of candy, took Mrs. 
Strangways’ large, soft hand and squeezed it between 
her own slender brown fingers. 

Aunt Vi, who hated sentiment, recovered herself, 
and spoke briskly. 

“So now I’ve got you to make a fuss of, and Fm 
happy! Bless you. Fm going to be a proper match¬ 
making mamma, and have the time of my life! Fm 
going to give a little dance for you very soon—would 
you like Terence Liscarney to come?” 

Deirdre started, and turned candid eyes on her 
aunt. 

“Oh dear, I absolutely forgot him! I promised 
to go for a picnic to-day with him, too—what will he 
think of me?” 



AUNT VI 


99 


“You can write and explain. Anyway, he’ll be 
coming up to town soon—he’s only down at Grey- 
friars for a week or so, I believe.” 

“Doesn’t he live down there all the year round?” 

“Oh no—that’s his house opposite—the one with 
the big wrought-iron door. Do you know his 
mother?” 

“I didn’t know he had one! Why, I didn’t even 
know him until a week ago-” 

Her mind skipped off the boring subject of the 
Liscarneys to the exciting one of the present. 

“But a dance—^honestly and truly. Aunt Vi? For 
me?” 

“For you! Do you like dancing?” 

The happy eyes clouded. 

“I don’t know—I’ve never learnt. We didn’t go 
to parties at home, you know. But I think I could 
dance—I sort of feel dancey!” 

“Oh, well, you can easily learn—modern dances are 
very easy. And your hair must go up, of course— 
this evening!” 

Deirdre made a comical face. 

“What a pity! It’s so nice in a plait, and comfy^ 
no hairpins jabbing into my head. How Roly and 
Livvy would laugh to see me-!” 

IV 

That night she put on the new green dress, which 
had just been sent home. Parker, Aunt Vi’s maid, 
came in and helped her to dress, and did her hair for 
her. It was all very bewildering and exciting. But 




ICX) 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


even Aunt Vi was unprepared for the new Deirdre who 
awaited her in the softly lighted drawing-room. A 
startling, fairy-tale princess of a Deirdre, with her 
white neck and arms, and the vivid green dress spread¬ 
ing out like a flower round her. 

“Will I do?’’ she asked, smiling. “I feel awfully 
queer, and my head seems freighted with hairpins, and 
I know it’s going to fall down, but if you approve, 
I’m happy.” 

“You look lovely, my dear, and I’m proud of you.” 

“Are you really? How happy I feel! Do you know 
that I stood in front of the glass for ages, just smirk¬ 
ing at my petticoat and silk stockings! I rather wanted 
to come down like that—it’s so nice hearing the little 
rustle of the silk against my ankles as I walk!” She 
danced across the room, admiring her slender silken 
ankles and narrow brocade shoes. “It’s just like 
Cinderella, Auntie! You’re the fairy godmother and 
I’m Cinders, brought from her fireside to the ball¬ 
room !” 

“And the Prince?” 

“Ah, the Prince-” Suddenly she stopped dancing. 

“I don’t know where he is, but I’m going to find 
him! Of course I’m going to find him!” 

And unconsciously her arms went out in a wide, 
sweeping gesture- 

Aunt Vi wondered still more, but very wisely she 
said nothing. 

They had dinner, and afterwards went to His 
Majesty’s. 

Deirdre, the green dress hidden beneath a silvery 




AUNT VI 


lOI 


cloak, was in mad spirits. She made airy sallies, 
darted delicate shafts of wit—all with that gay, childish 
air of enjoyment that Aunt Vi loved to see. She 
peered out of the window of the car at the lights of 
the theatres and restaurants, glowing through the twi¬ 
light. Once she kissed Aunt Vi impulsively and said 
like a child: 

‘Tm so happy! So happy!” 

His Majesty’s pleased her—she liked the marble- 
paved foyer, the softly lighted corridors. They were 
late; the orchestra was just finishing the Overture as 
they took their seats in the third row of the stalls. 
The curtain rose, and Deirdre entered the Gates of 
Romance. 

More than one head was turned sympathetically 
towards the third row of the stalls, as her laughter 
rang out clear and spontaneous as a child’s. She 
watched the feast of colour and movement with rapt 
gyes—leaning forward a little with parted lips. “Cairo 
bored Aunt Vi—she preferred something a trifle heavy 
and dramatic—but one glance at Deirdre s face amply 
repaid her. The lights went up, and the girl turned, 
smiling. 

“Isn’t it lovely!” she said. “Don’t you love that 
pretty girl—Fedora Rossini, and-” 

She paused suddenly, and Aunt Vi followed the di¬ 
rection of her startled gaze. A young man had just 
entered one of the boxes, and was standing talking to 
a fair woman in rose-pink. His face was half averted, 
so Aunt Vi could only see that he was tall and slim, 
with dark hair and a well-shaped head. Then she 


102 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


looked at Deirdre again—the girl’s face was startling 
in its radiance—she half rose, her eyes eager. Then 
the young man turned. 

Aunt Vi was almost frightened by the sudden change 
in Deirdre’s face—it was as if a hand had passed over 
it, wiping out all the happiness. The weary eyes, the 
quivering mouth- 

“My dear, what is it?” 

She forced a small, brave smile. 

“Nothing, Auntie, thanks. I only thought that I 
saw someone I knew in one of the boxes-” 

She sat very still for the rest of the performance, 
looking with unseeing eyes at the brilliant stage, seeing 
in her imagination the bluebell-painted hollows of 
Gilly’s Wood. 

Hearing a young voice say steadily: 

“We were always together—I loved you-” 

Absurd tears suddenly sprang to her eyes. The 
violins were wailing like voices calling from beneath 
the sea. A voice began to sing—she heard it 
mechanically— 

“Love in my heart he lit, then fared away . . .” 

Love . . . 

“We were always together—I loved you——” 

But it wasn’t love—it couldn’t be love. She almost 
laughed at the idea. It was nothing so common as 
love. It was just that they had been together—some¬ 
time—somewhere—and that nothing could keep them 
apart. 

“Not even Death,” thought Deirdre, her hands 
clasped tightly in her lap. 






AUNT VI 


103 


She did not feel sentimental—she merely felt that, 
as surely as she was sitting in His Majesty’s theatre, 
third row of the stalls, Fate or Destiny or God, or 
whatever you like to call it, had taken the thread of 
the boy’s life and the thread of her own and bound 
them irrevocably close together. She felt the calm 
philosophical spirit of the Arab, when he says, shrug¬ 
ging his shoulders—“It is the will of Allah-” 

Destiny, smiling inscrutably, holding the threads of 
their lives in her hand. Suddenly she felt very small, 
and lonely, and frightened, looking at that wise, ageless, 
inscrutable smile. But words sang in her brain—a 
string of vaguely familiar words that somehow took 
shape and form. A strong hand on her troubled 
thoughts. 

“Many waters cannot quench love neither can the 

floods drown it-” 

Then a sudden, triumphant voice: 

“For Love is strong as Death-” 

All blended in with that steady young voice: 

“We were always together ... I loved you. . . 





CHAPTER IV 


QUEST 

I 

There were such a lot of things to do in the days 
that followed that Deirdre seemed to live a lifetime 
in a week. She liked it all amazingly—^the shopping, 
the theatres, the gay life and bustle—but best of all she 
liked exploring London. She liked Bond Street, with 
its gay air of silken extravagance—she liked to go 
early to Co vent Garden and bring home armfuls of 
dew-wet roses, or baskets of big sun-warmed straw¬ 
berries—she liked to sit in Westminster Abbey and 
listen to the choir boys’ clear, sweet voices. All this 
she liked, but Aunt Vi, alas, did not. 

Aunt Vi loathed churches, and old buildings, and 
markets—she preferred to stay comfortably in the 
present, and not delve about in the past. 

“How you like it I don’t know,” she said despair¬ 
ingly. “Most girls prefer matinees and thes dansants 
to poking about looking for the site of Tyburn Tree, 
or sniffing corpses in a vault.” 

Deirdre sighed, torn between laughter and gravity. 

“Can’t I go alone. Auntie Vi?” 

“Alone? Cer-tainly not! My dear child, you’d be 
104 


QUEST 105 

murdered or kidnapped in some of those awful back 
alleys you dragged me into. I knew a girl-” 

She rambled off into long and harrowing details. 

So it came about that Terence Liscarney became 
her companion and escort. It all happened in the 
most natural way in the world. 

He had followed Deirdre up to town on the Friday 
of that week, and the following Tuesday he and his 
mother came to call. Deirdre had been out, under 
the dragon-like eye of the grim Parker. She came in 
like a breath of flowery air—tall and slim in the de¬ 
mure little fawn stockinette suit—an audacious felt 
hat casting a shadow over her green eyes. She was 
introduced to Lady Liscarney—a tall, masculine-faced 
woman whom, for all her effusiveness, Deirdre in¬ 
stinctively disliked. There was something lying latent 
at the back of the hard, grey eyes which put her on 
her guard. She turned with a feeling of relief to meet 
the friendly glance of Lord Liscarney’s blue eyes. 

'‘Well,’' he said, “you sinner, doing me out of my 
picnic!” 

He had pulled out a chair for her on to the balcony, 
cool and pleasant with its green sun-blinds, its 
flowers- 

“I really am awfully sorry—I forgot all about it!” 

“Worse and worse! You should have remembered 
it every day when you woke up, and dreamt about it 
every night I My heart is broken I” 

“Never mind—I’m awfully glad to see you-!’’ 

“Well, that’s consoling, but still, I haven’t got over 
the loss of those sugar buns yet I” 





I 06 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


‘‘Cheer up—we’ll have an honest-to-goodness picnic 
some day to make up for our last one.” 

His eyes wandered over her, with frank and uncon¬ 
cealed admiration. 

“I can’t get over it,” he said. “A week or two ago 
you were a kid in a short dress with your hair down, 
and here you are, looking as if you’d worn a Paris 
gown and high-heeled shoes every day of your life!” 

She stuck out a slender foot in its fragile casing of 
fawn suede, and smiled at it with a funny little air of 
complacence. 

“Don’t you like the effect?” 

“Oh, yes, rather—stunning! But you look so ex¬ 
tremely grown up that I suppose I must give up teasing 
you-” 

“Oh, don'tF’ she implored. “I love it! And I’m 
not really grown up, you know—I’m terrified that my 
hair will fall down!” 

“Let it! I rather liked that long pig-tail thing-! 

Well, what have you been doing with yourself?” 

She told him, her eyes sparkling. 

Five minutes later Terence Liscarney was assuring 
her that he revelled in “sniffing corpses,” and explor¬ 
ing bits of old London, and poking about in narrow 
lanes and alleys. In fact, from his enthusiasm one 
might have gathered that it was the passion of his 
life. So quite naturally he slipped into the position 
of escort. Aunt Vi, relieved.and not a little com¬ 
placent, was allowed to stay at home in comfort while 
they explored London together. 

Deirdre found Terry a vastly superior companion to 




QUEST 


107 


Aunt Vi. He dug out ponderous and dusty works on 
old London from his library, which they studied fer¬ 
vidly. He knew a hundred and one interesting places 
where he took her. One day he took her to lunch at 
a little Italian restaurant in a back street of Soho, 
where greasy, dark-eyed Italians sang love songs to 
the accompaniment of plucked guitars, and the cooking 
and wine were remarkably good. Deirdre sat en¬ 
tranced, looking at the gay crowd round her, listening 
to the soft, wonderfully sweet voices. 

“Caro mio ben, credimi almen, 

Senza di te languisce il cor, 

II tuo fedel sospira ognor, 

Cessa crudel, tanto rigor . . .” 

Neither of them ate much—so occupied was 
Deirdre in looking round her, and Terence in watching 
her vivid face. 

Another day they went on top of a ’bus to Rich¬ 
mond Park, where they sat under the trees and pic¬ 
nicked royally, with much laughter, and fed the deer 
afterwards. Then they talked, sitting in the mellow 
shade—or rather Deirdre talked, and Terence listened, 
with his eyes on her face, like a nice, affectionate dog. 
Deirdre began to be very fond of him—he took the 
place occupied by Howard in her heart. A big brother 
—someone solid and dependable and not too brilliant— 
that was how she regarded him. They played together, 
with London as their playground. 

One day they were feeding the pigeons outside St. 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


lo8 

Paul’s, having purchased a large bag of corn on the 
way. Deirdre had never done this before, and her de¬ 
light when the pigeons came all round her in a cloud 
of swirling wings was* child-like. She flung handfuls 
among them, noting with keen pleasure the shimmering 
petunia and flame green feathers on quivering throat 
and breast, that glistened in the sunlight. 

“Here-!” said Terence. “Let me have a handful 

—that fat fellow over there isn’t getting any.” He 
tossed the remainder of the bag to his protege, laughing 
like a boy. 

Deirdre said suddenly: 

“You’re a dear, Terry, you know-” A warm 

flush stained her white skin, and she made a funny 
little grimace of apology. “Lord Liscarney, I mean! 
It slipped out!” 

He left the pigeons and turned to her eagerly. 

“Please don’t call me that! I should love it if you’d 
call me ‘Terry’—everyone does!” 

There was no mistaking his eagerness. She smiled, 
tracing a crack in the stone steps they were standing 
on with the tip of her lacy parasol. 

“Very well, if you don’t mind! It’s so much shorter 
than the other. But honestly, I meant what I said 
just now!” 

“Honest Injun, hand on heart?” 

“Honest Injun, hand on heart! It has suddenly 
dawned on me that you’re a fraud!” 

“What a libel! And it’s not logic either. Frauds 
and dears never go well together-!” 

“They do sometimes! Now, Terry, admit that you're 





QUEST 


109 


not so passionately fond of old London, and poets’ 
houses, and tombs in the Abbey as you pretend to be 1 ” 

The blue eyes tried to be serious, and failed. 

“Well, to be strictly truthful (as I always am with 
you!) it’s not one of my weaknesses!” 

Deirdre threw out her hands in a sweeping gesture 
which embraced the old, grimy building behind her, 
the pigeons, their pattering feet coral-pink on the grey 
stone, the tall figure standing on the steps beside her. 

“Well, why on earth didn’t you say so?” 

“Wh}^ on earth should I?” 

“But my dear boy”—her voice sounded maternally 
severe—“you must have been bored to death!” 

“What absolute rot! Anything that pleases you 
pleases me! You ought to know that by now.” 

Deirdre looked at him, and then very hastily away. 
She began to move down the steps, chirruping to the 
pigeons, and looked at him over her shoulder. . 

“Well, of course, you needn’t come any more-” 

“But I shall! Unless you fire me for good. I say, 

do be a-” He paused. /Deirdre was looking past 

him with suddenly eager eyes and parted lips. “What’s 
up?” 

He turned, and saw a tall young man in grey cross¬ 
ing the road—slenderly built, dark-skinned, walking 
with a peculiar grace. Then he turned to Deirdre 
again, his eyes questioning. But Deirdre was gone-- 

The little scene that followed always lived with a 
strange vividness in Liscarney’s memory. Deirdre 
was down the steps in a flash, scattering the pigeons, 
running, her swift, bronze-shod feet twinkling as if 





no 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


winged, to catch up the man in grey. She dropped 
her parasol—it lay forlornly—half-opened, like a 
giant flower, in the gutter. Liscarney followed, pick¬ 
ing it up on his way. Her quarry was now some way 
down the road, moving quickly among the crowd. 

Not a few heads were turned after the girl in the 
orange dress, who ran like a boy, bumping into people, 
apologizing hastily, running again. Terence came up 
in time to see the end of the strange little scene. She 
caught up with the young man in grey as he was 
entering a shop. She laid a hand on his arm, breath¬ 
lessly laughing. 

The young man turned round, surprised. Terence 
saw a pleasant, dark-skinned boy’s face, puzzled brown 
eyes, a wide, humorous mouth. Then he looked at 
Deirdre. All the laughter was gone from her face— 
she suddenly looked terribly tired. 

“I beg your pardon,” she said, smiling a little me¬ 
chanically, “I thought you were—a friend of mine 

_ yy 

She turned to Terence, still smiling in that fixed 
way. The brown-eyed young man murmured a few 
conventional words, smiled rather nicely, raised his 
hat, and went into the shop. Terence and Deirdre 
stood looking at each other. Then Deirdre said again: 

“I thought he was a friend of mine. I made quite 
sure—quite sure-” 

Terence took one look at her face and then hailed 
a taxi. 

”In you get!” he said—gave an address to the driver 
—got in himself. 




QUEST 


III 


They rumbled away through the busy traffic—away 
from the river, with its grimy barges, away from the 
coral-clawed pigeons, still pattering about in the sun¬ 
shine, picking up odd grains of corn. 

They spoke no word until they had left it all far 
behind them. Then Deirdre turned and smiled at 
him—her own, curling smile. 

“I repeat—you are a dear, Terry! You're so—so 
under standy-y 1” 

Terence flushed uncomfortably—looking absurdly 
like a guilty schoolboy caught in the act. 

“Oh, rot!" 

The trite, slangy phrase had a most refreshing effect 
on Deirdre. She felt that he was all refreshing—his 
long-limbed business, sprawling on the seat beside her, 
the frank eyes that looked at her squarely, the wide, 
boyish mouth, with its little humorous wrinkles at 
the corners. All most delightfully refreshing. He was 
so gay, and hail-fellow-well-met, and clean run—and 
he never asked questions. She felt tremendously grate¬ 
ful to him—she wanted suddenly to explain. 

“That boy was really awfully like—a great friend 
of mine. Not really, when you looked at him, but 
something in his build and walk. I made so sure of 
it that I was absolutely knocked flat when he turned 
round." 

“I thought you looked a little tired," said Terence 
tactfully, “that's why I shot you into the taxi." 

“I know—Terry, you take as much care of me as 
if I was marked ‘Fragile—with care!' Why, I 
wonder ?" 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


112 

“Would you really like to know?” enquired Lord 
Liscarney eagerly. 

Deirdre looked at him, and then very hastily out 
of the window. 

“No thanks,” she said politely but firmly. “Save 
it up for another time.” 

“Right-oh!” said Terence amiably, and leant back 
in his corner with the air of a man who is contented 
with all the world. 

II 

The day of the dance came round, to Deirdre’s 
mingled trepidation and relief. 

The trepidation was at the idea of making her 
debut, stared at by curious eyes, criticized by sharp 
tongues. The relief was that the continuous whirl of 
dressmakers, dancing lessons, electricians, fittings, and 
all the fuss which even a small dance involves had 
come to an end. 

Her dress lay in its tissue wrappings, waiting to be 
donned. She had no anxiety as to the skill of her 
slender feet in their silver slippers—they were indeed 
as “dance-y” as a fairy’s. Downstairs the white and 
gold ballroom was waiting for the tap of little high 
heels on its polished floor, for the deep voice of the 
’cellos, and the wailing of violins. 

The night before the dance she had a curious dream. 
She dreamt that she was standing in the white and 
gold ballroom, the centre of a crowd of people. Such 
extraordinary people—little dwarfs and goblins, with 
twisted, wrinkled 'faces that leered and scowled at 


QUEST 


113 

her. They were pressing close in on her, threatening,, 
muttering, when suddenly she saw Terence Liscarney’s. 
smooth fair head, towering over the crowd. He came 
to her, and, putting his arm round her, began to dance. 

The orchestra struck up—what in the world were 
they playing? “Arline’s Song” from “The Bohemian 
Girl” ! What a funny thing to dance to! But it didn’t 
seem to matter much in the dream. Then something 
made Deirdre look up. Standing in the doorway, his 
dark eyes fixed on her, was Guy. That orchestra— 
wailing—sobbing- 

“And I dreamt that one of the noble host 
Came forth my hand to claim— 

But I also dreamt, which charmed me most, 

That you loved me still the same—” 

Deirdre heard her own voice cry, in the midst of a 
strange, unearthly silence—“Guy!- Guy!'' 

He threw back his head and laughed—she saw the 
old audacious tilt of his mouth. Then, still laughing, 
he came towards her. But the crowd surged in be¬ 
tween, fiercely beating him back. She wanted to escape 
from Terence, but something held her back, powerless 
- Escape—escape-! 

Then she saw that he was winning—he was shaking 
off the fierce little men as a dog shakes water off his 
coat. Suddenly he held out his arms to her, and, by 
a supreme effort, she shook off the paralysing power 
that held her and ran to him. The ballroom was 
suddenly empty—the orchestra silent—there were only 






THE SHORELESS SEA 


114 

themselves in the world, standing together in a great 
silence. And then she was alone—quite alone—^by her¬ 
self in the echoing ballroom. The lights flickered, and 
went out one by one. She called “Guy!” and then 
again—“Guy 1 ” 

But the ballroom was quite empty. . . . 

Empty. . . .« 

Deirdre woke with the tears wet on her cheeks. 
She put out her hand and switched on the little read¬ 
ing lamp by her bed and saw with positive relief, in¬ 
stead of the gold and white ballroom of her dreams, the 
white furniture and fox-glove chintz of her familiar 
room. 

But the dream haunted her all day. She was de¬ 
cidedly glad to see Terence’s gay face when he came 
over that morning, looking very important and mys¬ 
terious. 

“Fve got a little present for you,” he announced. 
“An un-birthday present! Just to buck you up for 
this evening-!” 

Deirdre almost danced. 

“Terry, you think of everything! Doesn’t he. Aunt 
Vi?” 

Aunt Vi, who had wandered into the room like a 
large, aimless, disembodied spirit, assented affably and 
wandered out again—rather too casually. 

Terry followed her, to return in a few minutes with 
a wicker hamper. This he put in her lap. 

“There you are, madam! With compliments!” 

Eager as a child, she drew back the bolt of the 
hamper. Sitting with his stumpy legs well apart, an 



QUEST 


115 

injured expression on his square, impudent face, that 
was irresistibly comic, was a Sealyham puppy. 

Deirdre and he stared at each other for a second. 
Then the puppy slowly winked one black eye, and gave 
an approving “Wuff!” The next minute the hamper 
was on the floor, and the Sealyham was in Deirdre’s 
arms, ecstatically licking her laughing face. 

“Terry—oh Terry, you dear!'' 

“Do you like him?” 

“Like him? I simply adore him! What’s his name?” 

“Ke had a yard long one in the pedigree, but you 
can name him yourself. Let’s have a look at you, 
you young beggar I” He held the squirming puppy at 
arm’s length, and reflected gravely. “What about Sam 
Weller! He’s got a comic sort of face?” 

“Beautiful! Samiwell, my precious, you are Sami- 
well. Terry, I’ve been feeling decidedly fed to-day, 
and you and Sam have cheered me up no end.” She 
bent her head down to the excited puppy, squirming 
in Terence’s arms. Luckily she did not see the expres¬ 
sion in the blue eyes looking down at her. “How old is 
he, Terry?” 

“Four months—fat little beggar, isn’t he?” 

He put Mr. Weller down, who immediately began 
to caper in giddy circles, making playful darts at 
Terry’s legs. 

“He must be so glad, poor darling, to get out of 
that old basket.” 

“Well, what about taking him for a toddle in the 
gardens? Let’s go and baptize him in the Round 
Pond!” 


Ii6 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Deirdre executed a pas seul. 

“Good idea! Will you come too?” 

“Rather! Buck up and get ready, and Til wait for 
you.” 

Five minutes later a demure Deirdre (having in¬ 
formed Mrs. Strangways of her departure), in a pale 
green dress that matched her eyes, and a large white 
hat, joined Terence in the big, cool hall, and the trio 
set out for Kensington Gardens. 

The sun was shining, the gay window-boxes all 
looked spick and span, and even the tall, austere man¬ 
sions somehow looked jolly and friendly in the sun¬ 
shine. 

Not a few heads were turned after the trio as they 
strolled along. There was something young and ar¬ 
resting about them all—Deirdre with her vivid face, 
her laughing red mouth, Terence, big and fair and 
immaculate, and, padding along by their side, the little 
white dog with his impudent face, his lifted ear. 

Kensington Gardens at last—and the fat balloon 
wouian at the gate, with her flower-like bouquet of 
bubbles. Deep jade, twilight mauve, cloudy topaz- 
yellow, a warm rose-scarlet like the seeds of a pome¬ 
granate. Deirdre wanted to buy the lot, and send them 
soaring, vivid flower petals against the blue sky. Mr. 
Weller also approved of the balloons—he barked shrilly 
at them, and made a dab at the old woman’s toes. 
Much against his will he was forced to leave the fasci¬ 
nating things behind, and seek “fresh woods and pas¬ 
tures new.” 

Kensington Gardens seemed the haunt of children 


QUEST 


117 


—such jolly mites, beginning with the babies who were 
wheeled up and down the Babies’ Walk by starchy 
nurses, and ending with the long-legged bundles of 
muslin and frilly organdy, with round rosy faces under 
floppy hats, who skipped gravely along the Broad 
Walk, or played mysterious games of their own, sitting 
on the edge of the green benches. 

They were dressed in all sorts of gay, brave colours 
—daffodil-yellow, currant-red, a jolly blue like a 
lupin. 

“Look at the budding admiral over there!” said 
Terence suddenly. 

He pointed to a sturdy little boy, resplendent in his 
white sailor suit, who was making, with a toy yacht 
under his arm, for the Round Pond. Evidently Sam, 
the Sealyham, shared his tastes, for with a “wuff!’^ 
of delight he was off, careering round the small sailor, 
uttering shrill barks of excitement. 

Deirdre and Terence hurried up to administer 
chastisement and consolation, but the little boy, grin¬ 
ning widely, was trying to grab hold of Mr. Weller’s 
fast-moving tail. 

“Come here, Sam, you bad boy!” said Deirdre 
sternly. “He won’t hurt you, darling.” 

“Oh, it’s all right, f’anks,” said the admiral loftily. 
“I’se used to dawgs.” 

Deirdre collapsed, and retreated from the arena, 
her place being taken by Terence. 

“That’s a fine yacht you have there, captain-” 

The sailor surveyed this superior member of his 
own sex with an approving eye. 



THE SHORELESS SEA 


Ii8 


“It’s called the ‘Black Dea’f,’ ” he remarked cheer¬ 
fully. 

“The ‘Black Death’ ? That’s a good name. Where’s 
she bound for?” 

“Mexico—with a cargo of iron.” 

He displayed proudly a rusty nail in his hand. 
Just then his nurse, wheeling a small sister in a pram, 
came up and bore him off. With a glance of resigna¬ 
tion, he said in his casual way: 

“Good-bye—^p’raps I’ll see you again at the Pond 
—down at the docks, I mean—Good-bye, Dawg-” 

They watched his sturdy little figure as it stumped 
Pondwards. 

Then Deirdre said gravely: 

“Oh King, live for ever! I agree—he was a darling! 
Didn’t you love the way he said ‘dawg’ ? He reminded 
me rather of Roly-” 

“Ah—I’ve never seen Roly. He sounds to me no 
end of a lad. But Olivia was a jolly kid.’ 

She looked at him gratefully. 

“Yes, she is—although her temper is dreadful! 
You’ve no idea how she and Howard fight—just like 
wild things! We’ve all got it—the temper, I mean.” 

“You too? Why, you’re the sweetest thing I know!” 

Deirdre made a face. 

“That’s very nice of you, Terry, but it’s not true. 
I may be nice and smooth outside, but I’m all rough 
and prickly underneath the pretty rind!” 

“I don’t believe it!” said Terry flatly. “I don’t be¬ 
lieve you could do anything that wasn’t straight and 
open and honest-” 




QUEST 


119 

“Terry, do be quiet—you’re making my ears burn! 
Anyway, you’ll know better one day.” 

Lord Liscarney opened his mouth, shut it again, 
and followed meekly in her wake. Sam Weller, now 
behaving with a comical staidness, padded along with 
waving stern and cocked ears. All the flower-beds 
were gay and orderly, standing like regiments of bril¬ 
liant little soldiers waiting to be reviewed. There 
were tall, prim-faced hollyhocks, pyramids of sweet 
peas, purple and white candytuft, and the burnt orange 
and velvety crimson of straggling nasturtiums. Deirdre 
fell in love with the snapdragons that filled a large bed, 
palest yellow, flame-pink, brave scarlet with white 
throats—she liked the demure insolence of their little 
faces. 

They sat down by the Round Pond—^that halcyon 
sea into whose calm waters slipped the prow of so 
many childish argosies. The white sails of the larger 
yachts dipped and billowed like gulls’ wings—the 
smaller craft kept cautiously close to the bank. They 
saw their friend the Admiral just launching his 
precious “Black Death”—by the absorbed expression 
on his round face they knew that his soul had slipped 
the narrow confines of Kensington Gardens, and was 
down among the clamour and noise and confusion of 
the Docks. For him there was no Round Pond, with its 
unruffled waters—the keel of his vessel was ploughing 
uncharted, perilous seas, bound with its precious cargo 
for Mexico- 

Deirdre turned suddenl}^—indeed so suddenly that 
Mr. Weller, who was sitting between them, looking 



120 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


up into their faces, with an expression of suspiciously 
angelic innocence, gave a yelp of surprise and protest. 

“Terry, you’ve got the most delightful knack of 
making people happy! I was feeling rather wretched 
this morning, and along you came, and hey presto! 
all my gloom departed! How do you do it?” 

“Oh, a gift of mine!” said Terence modestly, and 
with an absurd simper. 

Deirdre laughed. 

“Well, you deserve to be rewarded! Ask me for 
anything—except my new dance frock, and Samiwell! 
—yea, even unto the half of mine kingdom, and it 
shall be thine!” 

Terence looked at her with sudden seriousness. 

“Is that a pukkah promise?” 

“It is, oh most estimable Terry!’' 

“I’ll remind you of it one day,” said Lord Liscarney 
gravely. 

Ill 

There are times when, from extreme happiness or 
grief, the world around us assumes a shadowy, unsub¬ 
stantial air of unreality, as if we were walking in a 
dream. 

To Deirdre the night of her dance seemed dream¬ 
like—she wanted to laugh at it all. It seemed so absurd 
that she—Deirdre Bellamy—should be dancing and 
laughing and chattering to her heart’s content, and 
not lying brooding in the narrow little room at home. 

When she dressed she stood staring at herself in the 
long glass. Her petal dress was of white tulle, artfully 


QUEST 


I2I 


artless; its simple severity accentuated her long slender¬ 
ness. It was held up on her shoulders by fragile 
pearl straps—the silver lace underskirt shone through 
the petals of tulle when she danced, like the moon 
sailing through white clouds. The effect was start¬ 
lingly beautiful. Deirdre looked unsubstantial—a 
divine witch, her green eyes veiled and inscrutable—a 
fairy child, cradled in flowers. 

She picked up the beautiful single-feather fan with 
its ivory handle that Aunt Vi had given her—stood 
fanning herself dreamily, admiring her slender ankles, 
her narrow silver sandals, with their absurd heels. 
Suddenly she was aware for the first time of her own 
beauty—her own amazing power. It thrilled her a 
little—it burnt and tingled in her veins like a strange, 
intoxicating fire. 

That was the first act of the dream-like evening. 

The curtain rose on the second when she found 
herself going in on Terence Liscarney’s arm to dinner. 
She looked at him with relief and delight. 

“Oh, Terry, thank goodness it’s you! I was so 
afraid that it was going to be a total stranger!” 

Terence looked pleased. 

“Yes, it’s me all right.” He suddenly wished that 
he was one of those clever chaps who can say something 
witty and brilliant on the spur of the moment. Some¬ 
thing that would make her laugh in her own delicious 
way. He could only manage\tritely: “You’ll give me 
a dance or two to-night?” 

“Oh, rather! Don’t you feel dance-y ? I do! How 
do you like me in this dress?” 


122 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Another chance to say something graceful and 
brilliant! If Gervase Wycome had been in his shoes! 

He looked at her with his boyish eyes—she was 
startling in her loveliness. 

“You look like a—a Fairy Princess!’’ 

He felt rather than saw the tiny wince she gave. 
The shining eyes darkened for a second. . . . Another 
boyish voice, ringing in her ears— 

“Like a Fairy Princess, you know-” 

Then she laughed, as he had wanted her to do—her 
mouth curving. 

“You base flatterer, Terry!” 

She turned to her neighbour, still smiling. Terry 
sat with knitted brow—wondering. . . . 

After dinner the guests began to arrive. Terence 
only caught glimpses of the slender white and silver 
figure—as she stood at the head of the big staircase, 
beside Aunt Vi, ponderous and seal-like in black lace, 
with rows of magnificent pearls round her fat neck. 

The third act of this absurd dream-like comedy. 
She stood in a corner of the ballroom—^besieged, en¬ 
tirely surrounded, by tall young men. You could not 
see her white gauziness for the black coats that clus¬ 
tered round her. She stood laughing, consoling, 
granting royally, her eyes shining, her lips parted. 

“No doubt about her success,” thought Mrs. Strang- 
ways complacently, as she watched her niece dismissing 
her court. 

When Terence Liscarney at last managed to gain 
Deirdre’s side, he said disconsolately: 

“I suppose you’re all booked up?” 


QUEST 


123 


She laughed at him over her fan. 

“Well, I am-” His face fell ludicrously. “But 

IVe saved two for you! You deserve something for 
your dearness to me!” 

He wanted to take her in his arms and, before the 
eyes of the whole room, kiss the spot where the ghost 
of a tantalizing dimple hovered. Instead, he said un- 
romantically: 

“You’re a sport! Which are they?” 

“No. I and 16—I feel as if I could dance through 
Kensington Gardens to-night!” 

The orchestra struck up—a haunting fox-trot which 
had achieved a well-deserved popularity. They took 
the floor with a remarkable smoothness. Liscarney 
was an extraordinarily good dancer, and it was seldom 
that he found anyone good enough to suit him. They 
had not been once round the room before he realized 
that Deirdre’s skill was equal to, if not excelling, his 
own. 

Dancing with her was not an accomplishment—it 
was a gift. Unconsciously she had known how to 
dance all her life—a very few lessons had put her 
au fait with modern dances. Terence was delighted. 
She was light as the wind in his arms, lissom as a 
spray of cherry blossom. Her little silver-shod feet 
seemed enchanted-—she followed the most intricate 
steps that he introduced with astounding ease. People 
watched them admiringly as they dipped and swayed 
and whirled up the room. Not alone were they danc¬ 
ing perfectly, but they made a remarkably handsome 
pair—Terence, big and fair, Deirdre, slenderly tall in 



124 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


her gauzy white and silver. Aunt Vi sitting chatting to 
the dowagers, watched them with a smooth smile which 
was almost a purr. 

The night fled on swift feet for Deirdre. She passed 
from one partner to the other in a state of almost 
delirious happiness. She loved the lot of them—they 
were all young and clean-cut like Terry—^with their 
beautifully brushed hair, their gay nonsense. They 
all looked at her with the frankest admiration in their 
eyes—looking at the soft shadow her lashes cast on 
the warm white smoothness of her cheek, the pur¬ 
plish lights in the black hair. 

As she danced, she looked at the gay crowd round 
her. They were so friendly and smiling—she felt that 
she loved them all—the tall young men, the pretty 
girls in their gauzy dresses. They satisfied her old 
craving for colour and beauty—they were like a bed 
of flowers—a border of tulips—all blowing and danc¬ 
ing to the wind’s pipes. There was a small dark girl 
like a leaping flame in her flower-like dress of scarlet 
tulle. Someone tall and fair wore topaz-yellow chiffons 
—she looked like a swaying daffodil as she danced. 
Dahlia Westcote was in black—shimmery, scaly black 
that went well with her violent red hair. She waved 
and smiled across the room at Deirdre—Deirdre felt 
that she loved her for it. The intoxication of all the 
colours—the lights—the music—went a little to 
Deirdre’s head. She was unearthly in her loveliness 
—a slim, moonlit thing in her silver shot chiffons. 

When she danced again with Terence Liscarney, she 
remembered her dream, and glanced smilingly at the 


QUEST 


125 


crowd round her—the happy, friendly crowd—so 
different from the muttering, threatening throng 
she had dreamt of. Although she smiled, she turned 
slightly in Liscarney’s arms to see if the tall, slender 
figure was standing in the doorway, watching her 
with laughing audacious eyes. There was no one 
there. 

“Who are you looking for?” asked Terry. 

“No one!” 

They smiled into each other’s eyes. 

“I say, I’ve discovered rather a decent little sitting- 
out place on the stairs^—let’s go and bag it, and have 
an orgy of ices!” 

“Oh, Terry, you pig! All right—I’d love one!” 

As they neared the door she slipped out of his arms 
like a tantalizing witch, adorably laughing. 

Not a few pairs of eyes watched them disappear— 
Aunt Vi triumphantly, Dahlia Westcote musingly. She 
was dancing with Gervase Wycome at the time—they 
were great friends—a friendship cemented in the days 
when Dahlia wore her^;ed- 4 iaiffm two long plaits, 
and Gervase drew^sketchy caricatures for her edifica¬ 
tion on the schoolroom wall. 

She said thoughtfully: 

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” 

“Who—Miss Bellamy?” 

“Um—I think all you men have gone absolutely 
crazy about her! I wonder how she does it?” 

“There’s no ‘does’ about it,” said Gerva^se. “She 
looks at them, and they lose their heads. It’s merely 
a gift—I think there’s something rather uncanny about 


126 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


that girl. I’ll tell you who the chief victim is, though 

“Who?” asked Miss Westcote, knowing the answer 
before he said it. 

“Poor old Terry-” 

“Well, it doesn’t take much brains to find that 
out! Anyone can see he’s head over heels in love. 
I suppose she’ll marry him-” 

“If she’s not a fool! Terry’s no end of a catch in 
the matrimonial world! And yet-” 

He paused, thinking of the expression he had seen 
that June afternoon in Deirdre’s eyes. 

“And yet what?” asked Dahlia, pinching his arm. 

“Oh, nothing—only an idea. Still I should think 
she’d marry Terry if only to get away from that 
delightful mother of hers-” 

Dahlia’s dark eyes looked thoughtful. 

“I wonder how they’ll get on—also what Lady 
Liscarney will have to say!” 

Gervase chuckled. 

“It won’t matter much, anyway! Terry’s a head- 
strong fellow—obstinate as you make ’em—and what 
he means to have he gets. I rather fancy he’ll be the 
winner this time!” 

Dahlia shook her flaming head doubtfully. 

IV 

In August they went to stay with the Westcotes 
at their country house in Sussex. 

But before they went Deirdre expressed a wish to 
go to Lords to see the Eton and Harrow match. So 







QUEST 


127 


to Lords they went, Aunt Vi bored and hot, Terence 
Liscamey to act as escort, Deirdre, all in white from 
top to toe. She loved it all—the Eton boys in their 
glossy top-hats their immaculate buttonholes—^the 
pretty sisters and mothers, in their frilly organdies 
and flower-like parasols, hanging breathlessly on the 
lips of a small, important brother or son, who was 
giving his opinion on the merits of both sides. She 
loved luncheon—salmon mayonnaise, fruit salad—in 
a stuffy tent. 

Howard was playing for Harrow—^he was the 
youngest member of the Eleven. Deirdre felt absurdly 
proud of him. She followed the game closely—strain¬ 
ing her eyes to watch the slim, white-clad figures out 
there in the glare of the sun. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy had come to watch Howard 
play. They all had lunch together—to Deirdre her 
mother and father seemed strangers. Yet they were 
just the same—Mr. Bellamy, grey-faced, grey-haired 
—her mother, dressed very beautifully in rose-pink 
embroidered voile, with the fluffiest of fluffy parasols, 
the smartest of smart hats. 

She and Deirdre stood looking at each other. 
Deirdre was slightly the taller of the two—yet some¬ 
how she looked absurdly young in her floppy white 
hat, her frilly dress. Mrs. Bellamy looked at her with 
smiling eyes, then at Terence, then back again at her 
daughter. Deirdre could not tell why, but she felt 
her cheeks suddenly flame. She was glad when Aunt 
Vi, happily oblivious of the almost tense silence, broke 
it with a banal comment on the heat. She suddenly 


128 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


felt more and more that her mother and father were 
strangers. She was glad to turn to Terry’s tall form 
—Terry, the friend of two months’ standing. 

They all went into the tent to have lunch. Dahlia 
Westcote strolled up—her brother was playing for 
Eton—several of the men Deirdre had met at the 
dance or at other dances. They clustered round her, 
treating her like a young and spoilt queen. Mrs. 
Bellamy watched her laughing face bitterly—she talked 
to Terence, her hands fidgeting nervously with the 
tassel of her parasol. 

They trooped out again to watch Harrow’s innings. 
Dahlia and Terence were for Eton—they and Deirdre 
wrangled amiably. She felt that she loved Dahlia— 
there was something picturesque about her. She wore 
pale green organdy, and her flaming red hair looked 
startlingly vivid under the brim of a large black hat. 
Deirdre liked her pale, pointed little face, with its 
large dark eyes that always held a hint of laughter. 
She felt drawn to her—attracted in some odd, subtle 
way. They smiled at each other, recognizing the 
liking in each other’s eyes. 

Howard did exceedingly well, considering it was 
the first time he had ever played at Lords. He went 
up the steps of the pavilion, his handsome face flushed 
and glowing. Deirdre’s heart swelled with pride for 
him—she waved her parasol like a flag. 

Dahlia was saying to Terence: 

“I suppose you went down to Eton last month?” 

‘‘To see the Winchester Match? Rather! I always 
do!” 


QUEST 


129 


Deirdre started. 

“Were you at Winchester?” 

“Yes—^jolly fine old place! Have you ever been 
there?” 

“No-” 

She sat thinking. Of course it would be absurd to 
ask him if he knew anyone at Winchester called “Guy”! 
“Guy”—'why, it was quite a common name. There 
must be dozens of “Guys” at a big school like Win¬ 
chester. Besides, Guy would not have been there in 
Terence’s time—or if he had been, he would be a 
small boy—quite beneath the notice of a magnificent 
being of nineteen. The quest was absurd. 

Howard was to stay with them for the night— 
Mrs. Bellam.y refused to do the same on the grounds 
that she was opening a fete the next day at Bamberly. 
Deirdre was glad when she went—she seemed the only 
discordant note in a beautiful day. She watched the 
rose-clad form out of sight, and, turning, met the 
sympathetic gaze of Dahlia Westcote’s brown eyes. 
They looked at each other for a minute, then Dahlia 
took the other girl’s hand. 

“Good-bye,” she said. “I am so glad you are coming 
on Friday—^we are going to be tremendous friends— 
I feel it! Aren’t we, Deirdre—can I call you 
‘Deirdre’?” 

Deirdre almost stammered with pleasure. 

“I—I should love it!” 

“Well, you must call me ‘Dahlia’—then we’ll be 
comfy. Good-bye, Terry, old thing—give my love 
to Lady Liscarney-” 




130 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


They watched her join her large, good-natured 
mother, looking like a fluttering leaf in her green 
frock. 

“Isn’t she a dear?” said Deirdre impulsively. 

“One of the best,” agreed Terence warmly. “She 
and I have been pals ever since the days when she 
made my nose bleed in a fight we had in the tool shed 
at Grey friars! Wycome is desperately in love with 
her, but I’m afraid Papa Westcote is rather against 
the idea.” 

“What a shame!” said Deirdre hotly, who liked 
Gervase exceedingly, and thought that a brilliant career 
lay open before him. 

They all went home in Liscarney’s car—a large 
sleek Rolls, which reduced Howard to a state of 
incoherent ecstasy. 

Deirdre was overjoyed at having her beloved 
Howard to herself again. The boy also was gladder 
than he cared to show at hearing her gay voice, and 
seeing the vivid face under the big hat. 

Later on, when they were sitting in the soft twilight 
before dinner, he looked her over smilingly—the black 
hair dressed high with one jewelled flower stuck behind 
her ear, the vivid orange dress, spreading like a flower, 
the small brocaded sandals, held by fragile straps on 
her arched insteps. 

“Well, so you’ve got what you said you’d get, old 
girl!” 

“What did I say I’d get?” 

“Oh, pretty clothes and all that rot!” 

“All that rot indeed! Don’t you like me in this?” 


QUEST 


131 

She looked at him with the prettiest, bridling vanity. 

“Oh, rather—absolutely stunning!” 

He hugged her awkwardly. 

“How jolly you smell—sort of violety and nice-” 

“That, my lad, is a Russian scent which Terry 
gave me-” 

Howard said nothing, but cast her an impish glance. 
However, when she took a cigarette from a silver box 
on the table, and lit up with a casual air which was a 
little too good to be true, he could not contain himself, 
but burst out laughingly: 

“And who taught you this little accomplishment?” 

“Terry,” said Deirdre, avoiding her brother’s wicked 
eye. 

*‘Oh, indeed!” Howard chuckled. “That young 
man seems to have fallen for you!” 

“Oh, shut up!” said his sister elegantly, but, to 
her annoyance, pink-cheeked. 

“Keep cool my che-ild, keep cool! I only want 
to ask—do you intend to become the Countess of 
Liscarney, Deirdre?” 

Deirdre maintained a dignified silence, so her tor¬ 
mentor continued pensively: 

“It wouldn’t be a bad thing if you did, you know. 
After all, Terry’s a rattling good chap, and jolly well 
off, too. I should take the plunge, old dear-” 

“In another minute, Howard Rupert Bellamy,” said 
Deirdre, “I shall turn you off this sofa into the weary 
world!” 

Howard tried to look aggrieved. 

“That’s a nice way to treat your long lost brother. 





132 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


I say, you don’t think you’re making smoke rings, 
do you?” 

Deirdre stopped pursing her mouth into a comical 
“o,” and said loftily: 

“Be quiet, you horrid little boy! You notice that 
I kindly refrain from mentioning the orgy of Wood¬ 
bines you had one day in the tool shed—with its dis¬ 
gusting results. Anyway, I can smoke a cigarette 
without being ill!” 

Howard grinned, and opened his mouth to retaliate, 
but at that moment Aunt Vi came in, and the subject 
was forgotten, although he wrinkled his nose at her 
whenever Lord Liscarney’s name was mentioned, and 
during the musical comedy which they went on to 
after dinner, trod on her toe when the sentimental 
parts came. Deirdre did not know whether to be vexed 
or amused. 

Terence and Deirdre went to watch the second day 
of the Eton and Harrow match, when Mayne, the 
Eton captain, scored his century, and Archie Westcote 
also covered himself with glory. 

On the way home in the car cricket formed the one 
subject of conversation. 

“That Mayne is pretty hot stuff,” commented 
Howard ruefully. “He’ll captain the Lords Schools 
this year, I suppose.” 

“And Marshall, the Winchester captain, will prob¬ 
ably captain the Rest side.” 

“He’s good, isn’t he?” 

“Phenomenally so,” said Terence. “He played 
beautiful cricket at Eton this year—hit the Eton 


QUEST 


133 


bowling all over the shop. It made me feel no end 
of a Methuselah, to be sitting there watching instead 
of playing. Why that young Marshall was a grubby 
little kid when I left. I remember he was Wycome’s 
fag. Still,” he added, “I thought he’d shape pretty 
well at cricket—that kid’s got the prettiest style to 
watch of any fellow I know.” 

Deirdre listened idly. 

“Who was your fag?*’ she enquired. 

“A jolly little chap called Wyndham. Why, my hat, 
he’s left now—how funny it seems!” 

“But what was his name—his Christian name, I 
mean ?” 

Of course it was impossible^—^but still there was no 
harm in asking. Terry looked surprised. 

“Oh Lord, I don’t know—I believe it was George— 
either George or Geoffrey. But we used to call him 
Jingle. No, I’m certain it was George.” 

“Oh!” said Deirdre vaguely. . . . 

Deirdre saw Howard off at the railway station 
rather wistfully. 

“You’ll come and see me when we’re down at 
Spindlewood, won’t you, Howard, dear?” 

“You bet!” said her brother cheerfully. “Why, if 
the Pater does give me that Baby Triumph I took him 
over to see it will only be about twenty minutes* 


“Give my love to Olivia and Roly! Have you got 
that big box of chocs I gave you for them? . . . All 

right! . . . Good-bye-!” 

Sitting in her corner of the big, silent Rolls, she was 



THE SHORELESS SEA 


m 

suddenly forlornly aware that she was no nearer to 
finding Guy than she had been before. London was 
a big place—why, he might not even be in London! 
The forlornness of her quest struck her. Perhaps they 
would never meet again—but that was absurd! She 
knew that they would meet—some day. Deirdre won¬ 
dered, a little smile in her eyes, if he was looking for 
her too, searching in crowds, scanning audiences. It 
never struck her that he might have forgotten her. 
She knew that while he lived he would never forget. 
Still, a little chill closed over her heart—she was so 
alone in her quest—terribly alone. 

But there was Terry, sitting big and protecting in 
his comer—his blue eyes looking straight ahead. Not 
«o alone after all. 

She said suddenly: 

“You’ll be at Westcote’s too, won’t you, Terry?” 

“You bet!” retorted Liscarney, grinning. 

“I’m glad,” said Deirdre Bellamy. 


CHAPTER V 

DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 

I 

Spindle WOOD Grange proved to be the most de¬ 
lightful place. Deirdre had never seen an)rthing like 
it in her life. It was an old Elizabethan house, long 
and low, its creamy plaster crossed with most beautiful 
black oak beams. From the terrace that ran the length 
of the house there was a wonderful view—right over 
miles of weald and down and pasture. 

Sitting there sometimes, Deirdre felt that she was 
on the edge of the world—for the garden below the 
terrace shelved sharply, thus giving one the impression 
of being poised in space. Deirdre enjoyed every 
moment of her month there. She loved Mrs. West- 
cote, her cushiony softness, her occasionally drooped 
aspirates, which she corrected and retrieved as 
anxiously as a good sheep-dog rounds up a straying 
member of his orderly flock. There was something 
pathetically anxious about her—anxious to please one, 
to appear at ease and in her right place, as Dahlia did, 
among all the “grand folk.” Mrs. Strangways took 
a great liking to her—the two used to sit by the hour 


135 


136 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


on the terrace, playing Patience, and swopping fat- 
reducing recipes. 

Mr. Westcote also Deirdre liked. He was a round, 
fat little man, like an animated suet dumpling, with 
a deplorable taste in fancy waistcoats, and a booming 
fat voice that matched his figure. He was a self-made 
man, and was fond of advertising the fact. 

He had started with a small but flourishing grocery 
store in a suburb of London. The business had pros¬ 
pered and spread, until to-day when there was a West- 
cote’s High-Class Grocery Stores in almost every town 
in the kingdom. 

Deirdre did not need to be told that he was a 
grocer. She could picture him, a pencil behind one ear, 
a white apron shrouding his protruding contours, cut¬ 
ting bacon, taking orders, dressing the windows. 
Sometimes she wondered if he did not regret it all, 
and wish himself back in his own saw-dust sprinkled 
domain. 

There were times, when he was carving one of his 
own hams in thin rose and white wafers, or pouring 
cream over his plate of Westcote’s Flaky Crisps at 
breakfast, that she thought she detected a shadow of 
wistfulness in his pale eyes. 

What Dahlia was doing aboard this galley was a 
mystery. She was an aristocrat from the top of her 
flaming head to her slender little feet. There was 
something delicate and finely cut about her, although 
she had the touch of level-headed shrewdness which 
no daughter of Samuel Westcote’s could be without. 
Deirdre loved and admired her. 


DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


137 


Dahlia had that seventh sense which knows so 
exactly what is right. She had furnished Spindle- 
wood Grange herself, and the result was, instead of a 
medley of Louis Quinze chairs and Nottingham lace 
curtains and Victorian monstrosities all jumbled to¬ 
gether, a restful and artistic interior. The rose and 
grey drawing-room, with its subtle, unexpected touches 
of deep Chinese blue was a work of art. All the bed¬ 
rooms were cool and fresh, full of fine bits of glossy 
old oak, gay with crisp shiny chintzes. The only two 
rooms in the house which did not bear the hall mark 
of Dahlia’s taste were those which Mrs. Westcote re¬ 
tained for her own. Here she gathered together all 
her household gods—heavily framed studies of woolly 
looking fruit and top-heavy flowers, large plush arm¬ 
chairs with wool antimacassars, and an expensive and 
hideous French clock—and retired there when the rose 
and grey drawing-room got too much for her, to con¬ 
template blissfully the puce and crimson roses wilting 
on the ultramarine carpet, or to take a nap in the 
large text-hung bedroom, with its walls blazing with 
weird pink and yellow peonies. 

Archie Westcote, home for the holidays from 
Eton, was a tall, good-looking youth who began to 
worship fervently at Deirdre’s shrine. He had rather 
charming manners, and a delightful smile, but Deirdre 
glimpsed, under the polish which Eton had given him, 
a touch of vulgarity. He was not so innately well- 
bred as Dahlia. Deirdre sometimes puzzled over this. 
There was just the subtle difference between them that 
there is between two tables, the genuine and the faked. 


138 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


The genuine is perfectly finished, as smooth and soft 
to the touch as satin. The faked table is to all appear¬ 
ances exactly the same, but the sensitive finger of an 
expert passing over it will detect a slight unfinished 
roughness in the wood. Thus, to Deirdre’s fine intui¬ 
tion, Archie and Dahlia. 

For the rest of the guests, there was Betty Van 
Sittart, the dark little American girl who had reminded 
Deirdre of a flame in her scarlet tulle dress—her 
brother, Elliot Van Sittart, a tall, sleek young man 
with lazy grey eyes that contrasted well with Betty’s 
tireless vivacity—Lady Norma Mills, and Brian 
Adrian, a brilliant young composer who was rapidly 
coming to the fore. Sir Thomas and Lady Algate, old 
cronies of Mr. Westcote’s, Lord Liscarney, and Ger- 
vase Wycome made up the party. 

It was a very jolly party. They played and sang 
and danced a great deal—the tennis courts beyond the 
paddock were never empty—^they bathed in the lake 
which Deirdre could see from her window, every 
morning, lying placid and shining among its fringing 
woods. 

Deirdre was happy—immensely happy. She was 
charming to Mrs. Westcote—she went for long tramps 
with Mr. Westcote, who had taken a huge fancy to 
the “lass with the purty eyes.’’ Then there was Dahlia 
—darling Dahlia, satisfying and amusing, with her 
funny little air of worldly wisdom. It would not have 
been quite the same without her slim white-frocked 
figure, oddly boyish with its mop of red curls. 

The days seemed to blend into one pleasant, golden 


DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


139 


blur. There was such a lot to be packed into them— 
bathing or golf in the morning, tennis for the ener¬ 
getic ones, and a hammock slung in the orchard for 
the drones—picnics or boating in the afternoon, and 
then the twilight dropping its silver and mauve net 
over the quiet garden, when they danced on the terrace 
to the strains of the big cabinet gramophone, or sat 
listening to the magic Brian Adrian’s sensitive fingers 
wrought for them—Chopin, or Debussy, or the gentle 
laughter of Chaminade. Sometimes Deirdre would 
sing, but not often. She preferred to sit listening in 
the syringa-scented dusk, her thoughts wrapping her 
round like gentle wings. 

She saw an immense lot of Terry. It seemed that 
the rest of the party, unobtrusively and tactfully, left 
them together. She did not even notice it, but thought 
with childish pleasure how nice of him it was to like 
playing cavalier to her. It was Terry who waited 
under her window in the blue and gold of the early 
morning until she stole down to him in the dew-wet 
garden, a hig coat over her bathing dress. Then they 
would run over the fields, feeling the long grass and 
moon daisies brush wet banners against their bare legs, 
to where the lake waited, calm and lily-jewelled, to 
wrap them round with cool arms, as their swift flash¬ 
ing bodies clove the translucent golden water, like a 
sharp jewel-crusted dagger rending a piece of shim¬ 
mering silk. 

Perhaps Terence loved this hour best of all—he had 
her so completely to himself. There was not a soul 
about, except a moor hen or two, dark specks on the 


140 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


glistening water, and Archibald the swan, who would 
sail out from his nest among the reeds and watch their 
diving with haughty aloofness. 

What came later was just as exciting. It would be 
golf perhaps, the gentle art of which she was learning 
from Terence. She really did not care for it much, 
but it gave her the excuse for wearing a delightful 
white knitted golf suit, and the links were adorable. 
The course was laid out over miles of beautiful coun¬ 
try-swelling shoulders of down, little woods and fas¬ 
cinating copses, patches of hether and yellow gorse, 
slopes of mauve-y pink scabious, glossy buttercups, 
and nodding moon daisies, which cost Terry many lost 
balls and much bad language. 

However, it was really too hot for golf—much too 
hot. After having played a few holes, followed by the 
bored Mr. Weller (who was also a guest at the 
Grange), man and maid and dog would plunge into 
the depths of a cool wood and, sitting on soft moss, 
listen drowsily to the voice of the waterfall, thundering 
its splendid Te Deum, or lie among the bee-murmurous 
heather and harebells, where the ling spilt its passionate 
wine scarlet between the fronds of bracken, staring up 
at the hot, coppery blue of the August sky. 

Sometimes they commandeered Dahlia’s little two- 
seater and went for jaunts together—once over to 
Greyfriars to see Lady Liscarney, for whom Deirdre 
could not shake off that first curious feeling of dislike. 
Her fleeting glimpse of Greyfriars was delightful— 
she loved the old grey house, with its many windows, 
its crazy turrets, sunning itself so contentedly among 


DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


141 

the spreading gardens, the mossy terraces, and acres 
of sun-dappled park. They had luncheon in the Octa¬ 
gonal Room, gay with its green curtains and painted 
ceiling—the dining-hall, a huge oak-panelled, tapestried 
place, being seldom used. 

Lady Liscarney was charming to the girl—she 
showed her the picture gallery, the paved garden, and 
was extremely delightful. Still, although Deirdre told 
herself that it was absurd, the old suspicious dislike 
remained. 


II 

One day they went to Chanctonbury Ring. They 
tried to recruit other members for their expedition, 
but Dahlia, Gervase, and the Van Sittarts were play¬ 
ing tennis. Lady Norma and Brian Adrian had gone 
off in the canoe, and Archie Westcote was playing 
golf, so Deirdre, Terence, and Sam Weller set off by 
themselves. 

Deirdre had never been up the Ring before, though 
she had often seen its tree-crowned summit humped 
against the sky. A curious thrill shot through her as 
she saw it—something told her that it was going to 
stage an important scene in her life. She said dream¬ 
ily, hugging the little white dog’s warm, sturdy body to 
her: 

“Think of all the tragedies and comedies the Ring 
has seen, Terry! It looks wise, don’t you think? Wise 
and brooding and very kind-” 

Terence, occupied with his engines, which he did 
not think were running very well to-day, assented me- 


142 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


chanically. She glanced sideways at him, and felt 
absurdly annoyed at his absorbed face. If it had been 
Guy—ah, Guy would have been ready to take her idea, 
and wrap warm glowing words round it, the gold- 
threaded brocades of romance, the delicate chiffons of 
imagination- 

But it wasn’t Guy—suddenly her eyes smiled and 
her irritation flew. It was dear, prosy, unimaginative 
old Terry, bound down to earth by his engines, and 
golf clubs and fishing rods. He could not join her 
in her Pegasus-like flights—only watch her as she rode 
among the stars. 

She wondered mischievously if he had ever heard 
of Swinburne, and remembered the occasion when, in 
their London ramblings, he had quite innocently re¬ 
marked that he believed there was one of George Eliot’s 
landscapes in the drawing-room at Grey friars! Dar¬ 
ling old Terry! She would not have him changed for 
worlds. Just as Guy was placed aside in her thoughts, 
as a dreamer of dreams, with a brilliant, imaginative 
brain which was filled with as yet unwritten wonders, 
so Terence was placed as an out-of-door man, breath¬ 
ing of the heather and tang of the sea, solidly depend¬ 
able, frankly unintellectual. They were seas apart, and 
yet she was glad. 

They had turned oft’ the main road, with its strings 
of cars, and were bumping up a narrow, cart-rutted 
lane, thickly overhung with beech and chestnuts. Some 
way up they left the car at a small cottage, and Lis- 
carney carrying one end of their hamper, Deirdre the 
other, they started to climb the Ring. 



DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


143 


It was a beautiful climb, through the heart of the 
'beech woods which clothed one side of the hill, like 
a woman’s hair spread over a willow. The sunlight 
only flickered goldenly through the thick boughs over¬ 
head, hung with their ripening brown burrs. To either 
side of them spread deep gullies and ravines, natural 
amphitheatres which staged only the midsummer— 
even revels of the Wee Folks, who, as everyone knows, 
hold the Ring as their own. Wherever they looked, 
cathedral-like arches of green boughs opened out—the 
fresh, crinkly jade of the leaves already lightly brushed 
with autumn’s hennaed finger-tips. 

“Don’t let’s go any further!” wheedled Terence, rest¬ 
ing the hamper on the guarded roots of a huge beech 
tree. “Let’s have lunch here!” 

Deirdre’s eyes laughed at him from the shade of her 
wide hat, Deirdre’s vivid mouth mocked. 

“Terence Liscarney, you are the laziest boy! Come 
on—it will be worth it when we get to the top!” 

So on they went, until Deirdre felt the sharp, thyme- 
breathed wind in her face and they left the mossy 
woods behind, to thread the crisp, springy grass of the 
downs. 

On the brow of the slope a flock of sheep were crop¬ 
ping the sweet turf, while an agitated, bob-tailed sheep¬ 
dog, a mere bundle of wool on four legs, rounded up 
the last vacant-faced member of his straggling flock. 
The Sealyham struggled frantically in her arms. The 
shepherd, a picturesque figure, stood leaning on his 
crook, encouraging the dog with curt, gruff commands. 
At last the flock was herded together, and they began 


144 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


to move in a long column towards the beech-wood path. 
The man, as he passed Deirdre and Terence, gave them 
a gruff “Good day’’ with a flash of fine white teeth in 
his brown face. They stood watching the orderly ca¬ 
valcade patter down the path—it was a picture Deirdre 
never forgot. Between the smooth tree trunks they 
saw the little white sheep going softly—softly—over 
the thick moss, and then at the end of the flock the 
shepherd, with his old torn smock, the woolly sheep¬ 
dog, walking sedately now, like a prim schoolmistress 
out for a walk with her giggling crocodile of girls. 

It reminded Deirdre of a picture by Whistler. She 
dn long, ecstatic breath. 



“Wasn’t that lovely, Terry? Fve come to the con¬ 
clusion that there are no end of glorious places in 
England that I must see before I go to my Venetian 
lagoons, and desert oases, and Spanish palaces! There, 
Samiwell darling, you can go down now, but you 
mustn’t go far from us.” 

She looked very young in the short white skirt, the 
white silk jumper. 

She began to dance a little, skipping over the springy 
turf. Her eyes shone like sunlit water, green and 
clear between the black, silky fringe of her lashes. 

“I’m fey!” she said. “Absolutely fey! There’s 
something about the Ring which makes me feel queer! 
Do you know that I belong to the Wee Folk, Terry? 
You see, my birthday’s on midsummer eve!” 

He looked at her lovely, vivid face. 

“I believe you’re a witch, Deirdre!” 

“I shouldn’t be surprised! Not the black cat sort, 


DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


145 


who fly about on broomsticks, but someone like Kun- 
dry in '‘Parsifal”—waiting like a snake among the 
flowers. Or Circe—I always rather liked Circe 1 Or, 
‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci,’ with her ‘wild, wild 
eyes.’ Hurry up, Terry, or you’ll find yourself ‘alone 
and palely loitering!’ Come along. I’m dying for a 
bun!” 

They were close to the Ring now, with its closel)) 
packed rosette of trees. Suddenly Deirdre paused and 
pointed with one slim brown finger. 

'‘Look!'' she said breathlessly. 

Below them lay what looked like a parti-colored 
map—golden fields of corn, silver of oats, splashed 
with the poppies’ ardent flame, rugged brown of 
ploughed fields, jade of pastures, bare shoulders of 
down, little hamlets dotted like toy villages here and 
there. It was a clear day and they could see for miles. 
Nowhere the blue mistiness of the forest showed dark 
against the sky. The wind, faintly tanged with the 
clean sting of the sea, the unobtrusive scent of crushed 
thyme, blew in their faces, whipping Deirdre’s cheeks 
to a faint, cold rose. She tore off her hat and let the 
v/ind have its will with her heavy hair. She loved to 
feel it blowing through her, surging round her, like a 
passionate lover sweeping her into his arms. 

She suddenly laughed, a high, bewitched, shake of 
laughter. 

“Oh, the beautifulness of everything, Terry!” she 
said. “That wind has blown everything ugly and old 
and tired in the world away!” 

Terry put down the basket. 


146 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Now, where’s a good place to grub in?” he asked 
looking round him. 

Deirdre laughed, and came down from the clouds 
with a bump. The dearness of Terry! The solid, 
refreshing prosaicness of him 1 When she soared too 
high among the stars he put out his strong arms and 
plucked her down again. 

“If that had been Guy now,” she thought, smilingly, 
“we would have sat shivering on the hamper, looking 
at the view and quoting Swinburne, until it was time 
to go home!” 

She curbed her impatient Pegasus, and bent her 
thoughts to the task of finding a sheltered spot for 
their picnic. 

They fixed on a large beech tree on the edge of the 
Ring, beneath whose sweeping branches they could 
sit and look at the view beneath them. Deirdre un¬ 
packing cold Chicken, and crisp rolls, and big, knobbly 
strawberries reposing fragrantly among their cool 
green leaves, realized suddenly that she was extremely 
hungry. They had a royal picnic. The girl was, as 
she said, in a “fey” mood. She laughed and joked 
and mimicked, her eyes gaily sparkling at Terence over 
the rim of her iced-fruit-soda-filled glass. Terence 
thought that she looked about fourteen. 

“Isn’t this perfect, Terry?” she said once. “It’s like 
the Garden of Eden! You’re Adam—^have another 
sandwich, Adam?—and I’m Eve, and Sam is the Ser¬ 
pent! Aren’t you, Sami well, my precious?” 

Mr. Weller at that moment did not look like a ser¬ 
pent. He was reminiscent of a dove. He sat, bright 


DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


147 


brown eyes looking innocently at his mistress, antici¬ 
pating favours to come. Deirdre gave him a piece of 
chicken, and continued pensively: 

“Chanctonbury Ring gives me the queerest, exci- 
tingest feeling. As if I want something awfully badly, 
but I can’t get it! Do you feel that too, Terry?” 

Liscarney stirred his long limbs lazily. 

“No—at least not now—I do sometimes.” 

Deirdre surveyed a scarlet berry through the half- 
shut eyes. 

“Really? When do you?” 

Terry suddenly leant forward, his blue eyes leaping 
with that curious Something which Deirdre had dimly 
seen in the garden at Green Gables. 

“When I look at you,” he said, in a low, strangely 
intense voice, 

Deirdre looked away hastily, for once at a loss for 
anything to say. She suddenly did not want any more 
strawberries—she wanted to be up and away—away 
from the glance of those boyish eyes—walking with 
the sharp strong wind in her face. With a lavish hand 
she piled up her plate with tempting scraps for Mr. 
Weller’s consumption. Then she got up, shaking the 
crumbs from her lap. 

“Let’s explore a bit!” she proposed, embarrassment 
making her voice sound more than usually boyish. 
“We can leave the things here-—they’ll be perfectly all 
right. I want to look for Roman arrow heads!” 

He got up at once, stretching himself like a lazy, 
splendid young animal. 

Deirdre reflected as she walked away that she would 


148 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


like it better if he were not so easy-going and obedient 
—if he had argued a little—pitted his will against her 
own. Yet that was not Terry’s way. He was like an 
affectionate, well-trained dog, obeying her slightest 
word. Instantly she reproached herself for the 
thought. Why, it was part of his charm—that easy 
falling in with others’ wishes! Why was it that to¬ 
day she was constantly finding fault with him in her 
heart ? 

“I’m a little beast,” thought Deirdre remorsefully. 
“He’s such a dear, too—” And she turned to him 
with her best and sweetest smile. 

For some time they rambled over the Ring, poking 
among the earth and moss with no success. Mr. 
Weller, thinking a rabbit hunt was in process, joined 
in with great excitement and much noise. 

After a bit, tiring of the search, they left the circle 
of trees behind, and sat down on a steep slope which 
went down into the heart of the beech woods again. 

Here it was all carpeted with moss—so thick and 
soft that one’s feet sank into it. Deirdre buried her 
face in its velvety softness—a faint, clean scent stole 
gently up to her nostrils—the fragrance of crushed 
thyme. She said softly: 

“Look at that, Terry—a fairy forest!” 

The green moss was certainly a fit forest for the 
Wee Folk to dance in. It looked for all the world 
like groves of exquisite miniature pines and elms— 
one could imagine Titania sleeping on her thyme- 
sweet couch in the shade of their delicate boughs. 

Terence nodded without speaking. He seemed to 


DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


149 

be watching, not so much the elfin forest as the face 
bent above it. Suddenly he said: 

“Deirdre 1” 

The green eyes were all at once veiled and guarded, 
as if they were warily watching beneath their white 
lids. 

“What is it, Terry?” 

It did not seem as if it was herself speaking. She 
felt as if she was watching two people play a scene on 
the stage. She heard Terence say “I love you”—and 
felt a faint pang of surprise. 

Terence’s voice went on—how funny he looked! 
Not at all the happy-go-lucky Terry, with his gay 
eyes—a stranger- 

“The first day I saw you I loved you-” 

It was proceeding along the usual lines. 

“We should be very happy—we could travel a lot 
—Deirdre-” 

Deirdre—why, that was her name! She heard the 
voice—Terence’s voice—say again, very gently— 
“Deirdre!” 

Then the stupor cleared from her brain. She sud¬ 
denly realized that Terence was speaking to her —ask¬ 
ing her to marry him. 

She looked at him steadily for a moment, and then 
away, down into the valley beneath them. 

In the garden of the cottage below someone was 
making a bonfire. She could see the faint lilac-tinted 
smoke rising in misty spirals and eddies on the still 
air, and every now and then a pale tongue of flame 
that leapt up like a swift sword. 





THE SHORELESS SEA 


150 

Then she said gently: 

“Terry—dear, dear Terry—I can’t marry you- 

Well, it was out now—she could not look at the 
sudden quenching of the flame in those eager eyes. 

“Why not, Deirdre? I’d make you happy—swear 
I’d make you happy-” 

“I know, dear—it’s not that-” 

“Is there—someone else?” 

She thought of a boy’s dark face, thin and eager. 
If only they had not been parted like that she would 
have been able to say “Yes.” But now—after a short 
week of happiness? The whole thing was absurd. 

One day, though—when they found each other- 

Something sang in her heart like a bird. 

“No, Terry,” said Deirdre quietly. She rested her 
chin on her hands and looked at him with her oddly 
childish eyes. “I wish you didn’t love me, Terry. We 
were so happy before, weren’t we?” 

He said eagerly: 

“It was just because of that, that I had hoped you 
cared for me. We seemed to get on so well together 

“I do care for you—a tremendous lot! But not 
in the way you want. Terry, I’m sorry-” 

He swiftly, gaily rallied. 

“Don’t sound so dejected, you dear kid! It’s not 
your fault that I love you. But I always have done, 
ever since I saw you with your long black plait, and 
your pink cotton dress, standing out in the sunshine. 
It’s just—infernal luck-” 

A little silence fell between them, a heavy little si- 








DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


151 

lence. The little white dog climbed into Deirdre’s 
lap and settled down with a contented sigh. She laid 
her cheek against his velvety ears. 

At last she said hesitatingly: 

“You don’t think I’ve behaved very badly to you, 
do you, Terry? That I—I’ve encouraged you? Some 
people might, you know-” 

Liscarney gave a short laugh. 

“I’d like to see them!” 

“Terry, you don’t know how mean I feel! How 
utterly beastly 1” 

The young mouth was quivering. Terence was 
suddenly extraordinarily gentle. 

“Darling, don’t be absurd! You’re not to blame 
in the least little bit, and if you worry about it I shall 
be awfully cross with you.” 

All at once she saw him invested with a certain dig¬ 
nity—a gay courage that masked his own feelings 
and thought for hers. Tears came to her eyes—she 
thought childishly: 

“What a dear he is! If it hadn’t been for the Fate 
that sent me into Gilly’s Wood that morning-” 

She rose to her feet. 

“Shall we get the hamper and go, Terry? I—I’m 
rather tired.” 

So they went—through the beech woods to where 
the little yellow two-seater awaited them. All the 
way home they were silent—Terence occupied With his 
own thoughts, Deirdre weighed down with a heavy 
sense of her own selfishness. All love was cruel, she 
reflected sadly—one or the other, the love or the loved 




THE SHORELESS SEA 


152 

one, had to be hurt. It was just the way of things 

As for Mr. Weller, he slumbered heavily, surfeited 
with chicken and excitement, his square, impertinent 
head resting on a fold of the beloved’s skirt. 

The little car hurtled onwards through the sunshine. 

Ill 

Some days after they went back to London. 

Terence came to see them off, and his last words to 
Deirdre were, as he stood looking down at her: 

“If you ever want me—if you change your mind— 
you’ll send for me, won’t you?” 

Deirdre nodded, her eyes very soft and shining. 

“Of course, Terry dear. Are you going to stop at 
Grey friars long?” 

“Some time—but I’ll see you soon, I hope-” 

“Yes, do come. Good-bye, then-” 

They spoke thus, not knowing that twenty-four 
hours after they would meet again. 

Aunt Vi and Deirdre and Sam had the carriage to 
themselves. 

Afterwards the girl remembered vividly exactly 
how Mrs. Strangways had looked that morning. She 
wore a wonderful hat with a green wing in it—and 
her monocle swung by a narrow black ribbon among 
the laces on her massive chest. She looked very well 
and excessively cheerful, having procured two brand 
new fat-reducing methods from Mrs. West cote. 
Around her were enough magazines and journals to 





DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


153 


stock her for a journey to Honolulu. They filled her 
lap and swamped the seat: Punch, The Strand, and 
a highly coloured periodical, depicting on its orange 
cover a lady in a carmine bathing costume, had over¬ 
flowed and lay upon the floor. 

“Aunt Vi darling,” said Deirdre suddenly. 

Mrs. Strangways put down “Nash’s” reluctantly. 

“Yes, dearie? Such a good story by Hall Caine 
in this—quite exciting. You know I don’t usually 
like his queer people—so unpleasant generally. And 
the way they talk! Manx, I suppose it is. What were 
you saying, childie?” 

Deirdre began rather hesitatingly: 

“Aunt Vi—when you’ve had enough of me—you 
must pack me home again, you know-” 

“What is the child talking about?” Aunt Vi asked 
the River Girl on the cover of “Nash’s.” “Had enough 
of you?” 

“Well, I’ve been with you over two months. Auntie 
Vi. ■ You’ve been an angel to me—a darling—but 
I must be an awful bother. So if you’re fed up-” 

The green feather waggled indignantly. 

“Fed up! Why bless you, I’m having the time of 
my life! You don’t know how I love giving you a 
good time! No, you’re not going back again, my dear! 
I tell you that Cynthia would do her utmost to put 
you in the background again—I could see how jealous 
she was at Lords. You may have thought I was half 
asleep at the time, but I wasn’t! I was watching her, 
and you too, bless you, darling—enjoying yourself as 
you ought to do!” 




154 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Deirdre got up and hugged her, to the great boule- 
versement of the green feather. 

“Aunt Vi—you— \xiitr—darling !'* 

Mrs. Strangways waved her away, well pleased 
nevertheless, and straightened her hat. 

“So don’t you worry, dearie—I’m not going to let 
you go! You’re coming with me to Nice for the 
winter, and you’re going to stay with me until you’re 
married happily, and off my hands.” She shot a 
glance at her niece, which reminded Deirdre comically 
of a parrot cocking a crafty eye at the pretty finger 
put between the bars of his cage. “If I could see 
you married to Liscarney it would make me very 
happy.” 

Deirdre sighed—it seemed as if she was withholding 
happiness from so many people—Terry—Aunt Vi- 

“He asked me. Auntie Vi-” 

Mrs. Strangways started violently, and “Nash’s” slid 
off her lap to the floor, where Mr. Weller proceeded 
to sample its contents. 

“And you— Deirdre —you refused him?” 

Deirdre nodded, feeling extremely guilty. 

“But, my dear child—the chance of a lifetime—the 
best-looking and richest young peer in England—the 
catch who so many have angled for in vain!” Aunt 
Vi was a little breathless—her disjointed remarks each 
came out with a little gasp and a small “plop!” “But 
why on earth-?” 

Deirdre wanted to laugh at her aunt’s agitated face, 
but she managed to control her feelings. 

“I don’t love him. Aunt Vi-” 






DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


155 


'‘What an absurd reason! No one thinks of that 
nowadays! Besides, I am sure you would grow very 
fond of him in time. It is evident that he worships 
you—he would give you everything you could possibly 
want-” 

Deirdre felt suddenly impatient. 

“But that’s not everything, Auntie!” 

Mrs. Strangways heaved a large sigh. 

“Well, you are a foolish child. I wish you’d think 
it over, anyway, before you quite make up your mind 


“It’s no use, I’m afraid-” 

Aunt Vi looked at the lovely young face kindly. 

“Well, darling, don’t worry yourself about it. Any¬ 
way, I mean to make you absolutely independent.” 

“What do you mean. Auntie Vi?” 

“I’m going to leave everything to you, darling— 
I’ve been thinking of it for some time-” 

“Everything—^to— me 

“Yes—^then you’ll be independent of anyone. I 
am going to see the lawyers about it to-morrow—by 
my previous will everything goes to Charity-” 

“But—Auntie dear—surely you have a nearer rela¬ 
tion than me?” 

“There is no one—Fillimore has no relations living. 
Of course I meant to leave all you children a certain 
sum—but now it is all to go to you. You’re as dear 
to me as my own child, darling.” 

Just for a moment Deirdre sat still—visions floating 
rapidly through her brain—^travel—beauty—Venice, 
Egypt, Granada. Money meant all that. Money was 








THE SHORELESS SEA 


156 

Power. She could find Guy with its help. Money 
meant to her escape—once and for all, escape. . , . 

She sat with her eyes dreaming. Then she was 
holding Mrs. Strangways close in warm young arms. 

“Aunt Vi, if you knew—if you knew what it meant 
to me! It—it’s like a Royal Pardon—a reprieve from 
prison! I don’t know why you should do it-” 

“Because I love you, childie—isn’t that enough?” 
Aunt Vi became suddenly business-like. “Now, do 
stop strangling me, and sit down. I ought to be very 
cross with you—interrupting me in the most exciting 

part—just when he found out- Now, where did 

I put that magazine? I’m sure I—Sam, you villain! 
Give it to me! Good dog! Oh dear, he’s torn it— 
never mind, only the cover—let me see, where did I 
get to? ‘He turned round, and saw her standing in 

the doorway, with-’ No, that’s not the place— 

ah, here we are!” 

Aunt Vi settled down again with a grunt of content, 
leaving Deirdre to her dreams—her glorious dreams 


The train ran into Victoria Station. 

Deirdre thought of the first time she had seen it— 
how absurdly long ago that seemed! That slim girl 
in her badly fitting coat and skirt, her hard straw 
sailor, was like a figure in a dream. 

The sleek grey Daimler was waiting—she loved it 
now, because it seemed home-like. The chauffeur, a 
sleek, grey little man to match the car, beamed at her 
as he held open the door—he admired Deirdre im¬ 
mensely, considering her far, far prettier than Gladys 






DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


157 


Cooper, whom he had hitherto worshipped from afar 
as the perfection of feminine beauty. 

It all seemed home-like to Deirdre—London smiled 
at her, opening welcoming arms. The houses along 
the Park looked so friendly in the sunshine—the peo¬ 
ple passing by all seemed jolly and good-tempered— 
even the lumbering ’buses looked gay with their flaring 
advertisements of revues and newspapers and cigar¬ 
ettes. 

As for 64 Clement Street, never had its white paint 
and green sunblinds looked so fresh and immaculate 
—the window-boxes were full of lobelia, deep blue 
rosettes of flowers. 

‘‘Isn’t it lovely to be home!” said Deirdre ecstatically. 

Aunt Vi agreed. 

“I feel tired,” she said. “The journey, I sup¬ 
pose.” 

Deirdre looked at her—the jolly face certainly 
seemed a little drawn, and was it her imagination, or 
was there a pinched, blue look about the mouth? 

“You must have a rest, darling,” she said 
anxiously. “I’ll come and tuck you up in your room.” 

They went into the big cool entrance hall—Lark, 
the butler (a ponderous, heavy-looking individual, who 
certainly did not fit in with his name) hovering, torn 
between fear of Mr. Weller, who liked making darts 
at his legs, and respectful pleasure at their arrival, in 
the background. 

“Are you going up now. Auntie?” 

“I-think so—extraordinary how tired I feel.” 

Mrs. Strangways started to mount the wide oak 


158 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


staircase, leaning rather heavily on the carved balus¬ 
trade. Suddenly she stopped short, with a sharp cry 
of pain, swayed, made a horrible clutching gesture at 
the air, and before either Lark or Deirdre could reach 
her, fell like a log, rolling in a sickening, bumpy way 
to the bottom of the stairs. There she lay very still— 
horribly still—all twisted—a mere bundle of inanimate 
clothes. 

Deirdre found her voice first. 

“ Thone for the doctor,” she said. “Quick—the 
nearest! Send the car to fetch him! Hurry!'' 

Then she went down on her knees by the still, twisted 
heap that was Aunt Vi. 

Servants came running—the grim Parker, suddenly 
grim no longer, but ashen-faced. They carried Aunt 
Vi up to her bedroom—took off the crumpled hat 
with its absurd green feather. Deirdre chafed the 
cold hands—a sick dread catching at her heart. 

It seemed ages—years—until the doctor came. 

He was a tall, thin man, with a face like an under¬ 
taker’s and kind eyes. Deirdre noticed that he had 
a very badly fitting set of false teeth. One was missing 
near the front, which somehow jarred on her. She 
found herself not listening to what he said, but watch¬ 
ing that irritating gap all the time. 

“A heart attack,” he said briefly, giving some curt 
instructions to Parker. 

She scuttled away like a frightened blackbeetle. 

Deirdre still looked at that gap—she found herself 
wondering with absurd annoyance why he did not 
have another tooth put in. It turned his kind smile 


DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


159 


into a leer—a horrible, grotesque leer. Now that she 
looked at it the wardrobe had a leer too—it was lean¬ 
ing tipsily towards her—^grinning all over its evil face. 

•‘She’s coming to,” said the doctor. 

Deirdre wondered who was “coming to.” She sat 
down suddenly, as if her legs had folded up like a 
concertina. That wardrobe—she thought fretfully 
that if someone didn’t take care it would be over on 
top of them. Again her mind wandered in vague 
backwaters—she fell to speculating on the cause of 
that missing tooth. A hard chocolate perhaps—she 
remembered that Aunt Vi had- 

The doctor was speaking to her. 

“She wants you, my dear—just for a moment-” 

Deirdre thought that his eyes looked pityingly at 
her. 

She found herself kneeling by the big bed, looking 
at the oddly pinched grey face on the pillows. The 
heavy lids flickered—Aunt Vi’s pale eyes stared up 
into her face. Recognition flickered in them—she half 
raised herself. 

“Deirdre-” gasped the weak voice—“Terence— 

and you—promise—me— Deirdre -” 

Then there was a choking sound, and she fell back 
on the bed again. 

Deirdre got up, and looked at Parker over the bed. 
Parker was crying—convulsively, with odd little gasps 
and moans. She wanted to ask her what was the 
matter, but she couldn’t. 

The wardrobe was leering horribly at her—pressing 
its face into hers, swaying tipsily. She wanted to cry 






i6o THE SHORELESS SEA 

out, but no sound came. Then the wardrobe fell with 
a crash. . . . 

Blackness ... a great roaring in her ears. . . . 

IV 

Deirdre woke up the next morning to the sunshine 
streaming in on to the white paint and foxglove 
chintz of her own room. She lay thinking, a great 
languor and weariness stealing over her. 

Something had happened—something dreadful. She 
could not quite remember it. Between her and the 
events of the day before had come a dreadful period 
of darkness, semi-consciousness which seemed to be 
filled with leering faces and slimy, oozy things that 
stared at her with expressionless, dead eyes. She 
looked thankfully at the sunshine, and the bowl of 
asters, pink and mauve on the table by her bed. If 
there was still sunshine and flowers in the world, no¬ 
thing very dreadful could have happened. Then the 
door opened and her mother came in. After the first 
shock of surprise Deirdre was conscious of displeasure. 
She wished that Mrs. Bellamy would go away and leave 
her alone with her flowers and her sunshine. 

But her mother came over and sat beside her. 

“Do you feel better now?” she asked. 

“Better? What do you mean? I’m all right.” 

Mrs. Bellamy fidgeted nervously with the girdle of 
her filmy black dress. 

“You gave us all a scare yesterday,” she said. 

Suddenly Deirdre remembered everything—Aunt 
Vi’s grey face, the falling wardrobe. 


DEIRDRE AND TERENCE i6i 

So that was what had happened. Aunt Vi was dead 
—^jolly Aunt Vi, with her absurd parasols, her totally 
unnecessary monocle. She would never see the sun¬ 
light again, or friendly faces, never hear music, or feel 
the clasp of warm hands. All that was ended. . . . 

Deirdre did not cry. She lay staring at the picture 
on the wall opposite. It was a water-colour—a piece 
of the moor lying all rose and brown with heather 
beneath a heavy, lowering sky. At last she said, still 
looking at it: 

“I want to get up.” 

‘‘Do you think you feel well enough?” 

“Oh, Fm all right”—she spoke brusquely—“Fm 
going to get up now.” 

“Very well—Fll send Parker to you.” 

Mrs. Bellamy left the room, for which Deirdre was 
devoutly thankful. She threw back the clothes and 
got out of bed. She felt absurdly shaky and dizzily 
sick. After a minute this passed off, although the 
shakiness remained. 

After a hot bath, smelling of violets, she felt better. 
She had a cold shower after it, loving the tingling 
sensation of the cool water on her skin. 

Parker helped her to dress—a changed Parker, with 
red-rimmed eyes. In making her selection of the day’s 
dress it struck Deirdre that of course she ought to< 
wear black. But Aunt Vi had hated her in black— 
she would not want her to wear it. She chose a pearl 
grey silk stockinette dress, with stockings and beauti¬ 
fully cut suede shoes to match. Then, holding verj 
carefully to the banisters, she went downstairs.. 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


162 

The house was very still—dreadfully still. Mr. 
Weller greeted her with effusion, but even his vivacity 
seemed suppressed. Together they entered the draw¬ 
ing-room, where her mother and father were sitting. 
She sat down thankfully in one of the big rose brocade 
armchairs, keeping the Sealyham in her arms. 

“When did you arrive?” she asked her mother 
politely. 

“Yesterday evening—Lark wired for us to come.” 
She added with a certain relish, “Poor darling Violet. 
It was very sudden—heart failure.” 

Deirdre thought—“You smug beast—you don’t care 
a bit in your heart of hearts^-!” 

Aloud she said: 

“Anyway, I am glad that she did not have any pain 

A little silence fell. Mr. Bellamy had retired, and 
left them together. Deirdre looked round the beautiful 
room, and somehow v/as surprised to find it un¬ 
changed. Her mother was speaking; with an effort 
she listened. 

“Well, I suppose that you will have to come home 
again now.” 

“I suppose so,” said Deirdre, pulling Sam’s ears. 

She realized that secretly Mrs. Bellamy was pleased 
not at having her back again, but that she was not 
going to be admired and spoilt and given her rightful 
share of Love and Life any more. 

Satisfaction was at the back of those handsome eyes. 

“Really it was just as well,” she was saying. “I 
was going to write and ask for you back again. Olivia 




DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 163 

is too much of a handful for me alone, now that Roly 
is going to school.’^ 

“Why don’t you send her to school too?” asked 
Deirdre hotly. “Why shouldn’t she have as many 
advantages as Roly?” 

“My dear, you wouldn’t ask that if you knew the 
losses your father’s firm is suffering. Of course, en¬ 
joying yourself here, you never would think-” 

Deirdre’s eyes swept her contemptuously. 

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said curtly. “And I believe 
all that’s rot. It doesn’t seem to have affected you 
much, anyway.” 

Mrs. Bellamy’s narrow lips twitched furiously, but 
she managed to control herself with an effort. 

“Well, that’s arranged then,” she said silkily. 
“After the funeral you will come home again with us.” 

Deirdre said nothing—she looked at her mother 
through narrowed eyes. They stared at each other, 
frankly hostile, frankly measuring each other’s power. 
And into Deirdre’s heart had come a dreadful desola¬ 
tion—a knowledge that she was trapped again. 
Unless a miracle happened, she was shut in from all 
the beauty of life that she had thought was hers. 
After one intoxicating, heady sip from the Cup of Life 
she had had it dashed from her lips. There were no 
means of escape this time—a panic seized her. She 
said a little prayer as she sat there—a wild little prayer: 

“God, don’t let her take me back again! Help me 
to escape from Her for ever! Aunt Vi, help me to 
escape!” 

As if in answer to her prayer, the door opened, and 


164 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Lark came in, carrying a large white box. He looked 
at Deirdre with sympathy and a certain paternal im¬ 
portance. 

“With ’is Lordship’s compliments,” he said, putting 
the box into her lap. 

Terence! Deirdre put the injured Sealyham down 
and opened it hastily. Inside was a sheaf of long¬ 
stemmed crimson roses, with the dew still wet on their 
velvety petals—a cluster of heliotrope, intoxicatingly 
fragrant. There was a card inside—she scanned it 
hastily. 

“I am coming to-day, if I may. 

Terry.” 

With the flowers in her arms, brushing her pale 
cheek with their scented heads, she looked at her 
mother. Sudden triumph flamed in her eyes. There 
was a way out then 1 Why had she not thought of it 
before? A memory of Aunt Vi’s weak voice came to 
her—‘ ‘Terence—and you—^promise—me—Deirdre. ” 
And then another memory, even more poignant. A 
young voice, a little thrilled and shaken— 

“I’d known you were somewhere, waiting for me 

all my life . . . I—I’d always known-” 

Mrs. Bellamy saw her shrink in her chair as if from 
the sting of a lash. Her face was strained. 

She was at the cross-roads of her life- 

One road led to the wider way—to Life and all the 
beauty of it—^to the things she had dreamt of in the 
narrow bed at home—Venice, Granada, Tunis, Luxor. 




DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


165 


It meant Escape—once and for all. Escape! . . . 
She could take that road by marrying Terence Lis- 
carney, and giving up for ever her dreams of what 
might have been. 

The other road led back to prison again. She would 
have to stay there till the Prince killed his dragon, 
and delivered her from it for ever. But it would be 
weary waiting for him. And he might never come. 

Again panic seized her in its bony grasp. 

He would never come. He would forget her. 
Secure in his warm, friendly world, just entering into 
his glorious heritage of youth and success, how could 
he remember what must have been only a passing 
phrase in his life—those idyllic days in Gilly’s Wood? 
A terrible thought struck her. Perhaps he had been 
playing with her all the time—perhaps his gay friend¬ 
ship, his sympathy, his ardent championship of her 
wrongs had all been a pretence, devised to idle away 
a careless hour or so. Perhaps he had been laughing 
at her secretly—even—oh dreadful thought!—that he 
had kept away purposely from the wood! 

Mrs. Bellamy, watching, saw a sudden flush stain 
Deirdre’s cheeks, then fade, leaving them deadly 
white. . . . 

Yet it could not be so! Deirdre knew that truth 
had looked at her out of the lad’s laughing eyes— 
she felt shame that her trust in him had ever wavered. 
Yet—back came those panic-stricken thoughts hover¬ 
ing round her like a flock of evil vultures. She stood 
there, watching the shattering of her childish idyll 
with tragic eyes. Suddenly she felt very tired. . . . 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


166 

Lark reappeared like a discreet genie. 

“Luncheon is served, madam,” he announced in the 
hushed voice of a high priest. 

Luncheon—^the yellow Chinese dining-room—sun¬ 
light on the silver and glass. Deirdre made a pretence 
of eating, but she drank a glass of sherry, which 
steadied her nerves and pulled her together. None of 
them spoke much during the meal. Mr. Bellamy 
nervously made a few trite remarks and then relapsed 
into an uncomfortable silence. Mrs. Bellamy fidgeted 
irritably with the girdle of her gown, or the delicate 
stem of her glass. Deirdre sat thinking, her brain 
suddenly clear and keen. 

After lunch her mother complained of a headache 
and went upstairs to lie down. Mr. Bellamy, palpably 
relieved, went for a walk. Deirdre was left all alone 
in the big, rose-pink drawing-room. She sat down on 
the sofa, in a nest of gold and black cushions. Mr. 
Weller, whining a little, clambered up beside her, and 
looked into her face with bright, anxious eyes. Deirdre 
cuddled him close to her—the feel of his warm, 
rough little body was comforting. 

She had made up her mind. Quite calmly and 
sanely she had thought it out while making a pretence 
of eating her cutlets at lunch. She would marry 
Terry. She would forget Guy completely—drive him 
out of her mind, and fill in the gap he left with happi¬ 
ness, and beauty, and Terence. She would make 
Terence very happy, and in time, perhaps, grow to 
love him in the right way. He, at any rate, should 
never have cause to regret their bargain. And Aunt 


DEIRDRE AND TERENCE 


167 


Vi, if she could see and hear her niece, would be happy. 

Aunt Vi—the desolate feeling came back again. 
Aunt Vi was dead—who had loved her, and thought 
for her happiness. 

Loneliness wrapped her round in its drab mantle. 

Mr. Weller whined, and thumped his tail on the 
cushions. The Beloved’s eyes were wet and misty, 
and a tear had fallen on to his rough coat. His doggy 
soul was in turmoil. 

Suddenly he pricked his ears and listened intently. 
Footsteps in the marble-paved hall—drawing nearer. 
Deirdre searched wildly for a handkerchief. Then 
Lark threw open the door, and, a certain suppressed 
excitement in his tones, announced: 

“The Earl of Liscarney.” 

Terence came in. Deirdre got hastily to her feet. 
They stood looking at each other for a minute. Then 
—how it happened Deirdre never knew—she was in 
his arms, crying, not as a child cries, but quietly and 
terribly, on his shoulder. Then they were sitting side 
by side, he wiping her face with a large silk handker¬ 
chief. 

Mr. Weller sat between them, relieved and approv¬ 
ing. Now that the Man God had come it would be all 
right, and his Beloved would look unhappy no more. 

Deirdre gave a gasping sigh and sat up, actually 
smiling a pale little smile. 

“Terry, you dearT shakily. 

He smiled at her, with that half-guilty air of awk¬ 
wardness which always made him seem so boyish. 

“Do you feel all right now, darling?” 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


i68 

‘‘Yes, quite. It was silly of me—but seeing you 
standing there, so big and—and protect-y looking, it 
sort of put me off my balance. Terry, it’s lovely to 
see you! Does it seem awful to say that you seem 
much more friendly and dear than my father and 
mother? They—they seem like strangers, somehow 

--” Terry said nothing—he just held her brown 

hands in one of his own big ones. “Terry, I knew 
that you would come! It was lovely of you. How 
did you know ?” 

“Mr. Bellamy’s chauffeur told my man—^you know 
how things get round. So I caught the night train 
from Bamberly, and—here I am! Deirdre—I’m 
sorry-’’ 

“Thank you, Terry dear. Darling Aunt Vi—I 
loved her. And she loved you, too-” 

There was a silence for a minute. Then Terry: 

“And what are you going to do now, Deirdre?” 

“Mother wants me to go home with them after— 
the funeral. I am to go back”-she laughed a little 
bitterly—“to my old role of nursery governess. Ex¬ 
citing, isn’t it?” 

Terence was speaking, his words jumbling with ex¬ 
citement. 

“Deirdre, you’re not going. You can’t go—I won’t 
let you! You’re going to marry me! You must! I’ll, 
make you happy—I swear I will! Deirdre, won’t you 
try it?” 

Deirdre looked at his flushed, boyish face, the eager 
eyes. Innate honesty compelled her to speak. 

“Terence, if I do marry you, you must understand 





DIERDRE AND TERENCE 169 

that I am using you rather meanly as a way of escape. 
I can’t go back again, to be shut in from all the things 
I love and want. You can get me out of it all for 
ever. But I must show you the bad bargain you’re 
making first. Terry, I don’t love you—at least, I do, 
awfully, but not in the right way. In time perhaps 

He was unshaken. 

“I have enough for both of us, my dear, and there 
are all our lives before us for me to teach you.” 

Triumph was in his eyes, and an undaunted faith. 
Deirdre felt a little awed and remorseful that she 
could not return the great love he gave her. She said 
eagerly: 

“Oh, I’ll try to learn—I will, honestly. And I’ll 
make you very happy, Terence, so that you will never 
regret the day you saw me.” 

He laughed a little as at a child. 

“Yes, we’ll be happy. We’ll travel—you’d like that, 
darling? And I’ll take care of you for ever—if you 
let me, Deirdre-” 

A strange peace stealing over her soul, she picked 
up his hand and held it to her warm young cheek. 

A week later they were married. 






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CHAPTER VI 


THE MOVING FINGER 
I 

Deirdre Liscarney sat before the oval glass in 
her bedroom, looking at herself with intent eyes. 

Over two years had passed, and left little or no 
trace on the curving loveliness of her young face. 
She had, indeed, blossomed from an exquisite child 
into a beautiful woman. There was an added deep¬ 
ness to the translucent eyes, a warmer bloom on the 
delicately cut mouth. She had still retained that 
childish expression which was half her charm. 

She wore that night a dress of her favourite colour 
—green, a pale, soft green like old Chinese jade, and 
over it a wonderful Spanish shawl, marvellously em¬ 
broidered in dull oranges and vivid blues and lacquer 
greens on a silver ground. 

As she stared so intently at herself in the glass, 
Deirdre was mentally reviewing the past two years. 

They had been happy, as Terence predicted. They 
had spent almost the whole of the time in travel. 
Deirdre had seen all the beauty she had dreamt of— 
Venice in springy with the gardens a-blow with iris and 
173 


174 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


narcissi, with wistaria drooping palest mauve tassels 
of blossom over the old grey walls, and the gondolier’s 
musical cry coming like the wail of a wild bird over 
the water. 

They had lingered in Venice—Terence rather bored, 
but enduring it for Deirdre’s sake, consenting heroic¬ 
ally to visiting picture galleries and churches; to poking 
about in musty old curiosity shops, buying Venetian 
glass and lengths of cobwebby lace, to stand upon the 
Bridge of Sighs and listen to Deirdre quoting Byron. 
In return for his heroism Deirdre was as charming as 
she could possibly be. She studied his interests, made 
herself look pretty for his benefit, and was never bad- 
tempered or sulky. If she kept her bargain with him, 
she also kept her bargain with herself. She refused 
to think of Guy, of his voice, his smile, his gay eyes. 
She crushed the spun-glass fantasy of that spring 
idyll beneath the spurred heel of common sense. It 
had been a hard fight to do so—not in the day-time 
so much, but at night, when, lying staring into the 
darkness, unbearably poignant memories would return 
to her—memories that stabbed like so many keen 
daggers. She had mastered herself now—could even 
think of it with a calm wonder at her own absurdity. 
But scores of times—in Rome or Algiers, or Paris— 
she had caught a glimpse of some tall, dark-headed 
boy making his casual way through a crowd, and had 
to set her teeth to prevent herself from springing up 
and running after him. But all that was over two 
years ago. Time can heal all wounds, and daffodils 
blow again over the graves of dead hopes. 


THE MOVING FINGER 


175 


They had left Venice for Rome, which had awed 
but not fascinated her, as the “sun-girt city” had 
done. After Italy came Spain, which she loved— 
Granada, that Spanish mistress still sighing for the 
fiery kisses of her Moorish lover. And then Africa 
itself—best of all, perhaps—Biskra, with its gay 
crowds, its green gardens, enclosed in their high white 
walls, and stretching as far as the eye could see, the in¬ 
scrutable mystery of the desert. 

Terry was happier there—he even enjoyed himself. 
The crowded bazaar appealed to his sociable soul as 
no dim church or marble palazzo in Venice had done 
—he liked buying things that caught his fancy, useful 
or otherwise—wrought silver daggers, scarlet Moorish 
slippers, beaten bronze lamps, strings of amber or 
lazuli, subtle, mysterious scents from the old, wrinkled 
perfume seller, which he presented to Deirdre in quaint 
gold-lined vials. She used to laugh at his proud, 
flushed face when he exhibited these purchases to her 
—but her laughter was very tender. 

Terence had wakened the maternal side in her—she 
used to catch herself looking after the tall, white-clad 
figure, with its sleek fair head set so well on the broad 
shoulders, with almost intense pride. 

They were both happy at Biskra. Terence never 
knew when he loved Deirdre best of all—perhaps in 
the early morning when in her severe white linen 
habit she would go riding with him in the desert. He 
had taught her to ride himself, in the hallowed pre¬ 
cincts of Rotten Row, but even he was surprised and 
delighted at the skill with which she handled the fiery 


176 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Arab horses. Many were the gallops they had in the 
cool of the morning—Terence keeping a watchful 
though admiring eye on the boyish figure beside him, 
who managed the curvetting white mare with a reck¬ 
less nonchalance which secretly amused him. 

After Biskra had come home for a brief period. 

They paid a flying visit to old Lady Liscarney, who 
was now living in the Dower House at Greyfriars. 

It was in vain that Deirdre tried to foster an affec¬ 
tion for her—there was something behind the expres¬ 
sionless eyes that vaguely repelled her. Was it dislike 
or jealousy, or the ghost of a great sorrow? Deirdre 
could not determine. Yet there was outwardly 
nothing to base her instinctive dislike on. The 
Dowager had received her son’s wife with the most 
charming warmth, and had given her as a wedding 
present the most superb rope of pearls and a small 
but exquisite emerald tiara, “to go with your lovely 
eyes. Swallow^-” 

She was the sort of woman who is lavish with nick¬ 
names, and had at once christened Deirdre “Swallow,” 
saying, with her wide, jolly smile, “You somehow 
suggest flight to me—something swift and beautiful. 
So I shall call you ‘Swallow’—such a pretty bird, 
don’t you think, with its sapphire blue feathers ? And 
a lucky bird too, for it flies from the winter and every¬ 
thing unpleasant-” 

Was there, perhaps, something a trifle acid in this 
last? 

“I suppose,” thought Deirdre angrily, “she knows 
about Aunt Vi’s death, and thinks I married Terence 




THE MOVING FINGER 


177 


for his money. Well, I didn’t—it wasn’t so much that 

as to escape—to get out of my old, dull existence- 

Well, let her think what she likes! Terence loves me, 
and I’m making him happy, anyway.” 

So she smiled her sweetest, and agreed that the 
swallow was a charming bird—so “Swallow” she re¬ 
mained. Still it was odd that she could not banish 
her old, instinctive distrust. On the surface the 
Dowager seemed to be the most jolly and charming 
of women, with her loud, hearty voice, her vast 
laugh—yet Deirdre found herself watching her, 
warily, and being mentally on her guard. Also she 
noticed that while the narrow lips smiled, the hard 
grey eyes remained cold and expressionless. 

“They’re dead eyes,” thought the young countess 
with a shudder. “Dead, staring eyes like an octopus 
is supposed to have! Ugh! How glad I am that 
Terence is like his father 1 ” 

She had seen the portrait of Dermot, 9th Earl of 
Liscamey, in the picture gallery—a big, fair man, with 
a weak mouth and gay, intensely blue eyes which 
laughed down at her from his gold frame. He had 
been killed when his little son was not quite eight, in 
an accident on the hunting field. 

After the flying visit to the Dowager, they had gone 
to the Clement Street house for a month or so, and 
then, after a hectic whirl of everything which could 
be packed into the short time, sailed for New York. 

Deirdre loved the voyage—she would have liked 
to prolong it indefinitely. She was a good sailor—she 
liked the long lazy days, the starry nights, which 



178 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


brought her closer and closer to the huge, towering 
city she had dreamt of so often. 

She was the most popular girl on board—the univer¬ 
sal way in which the masculine element gravitated 
towards her was wonderful in its unanimity. The 
acid gossip that floated round the quarter where the 
Unfair Sex gathered in their deck-chairs give damning 
verdicts on the dress, manner and morals of their 
fellow-passengers, put down their conduct not so much 
as “wonderful,” but “scandalous.” 

“With a charming husband of her own, too!” said 
Mrs. Khelveston-Smith (pronounced “Keston”) with 
a sniff that made the nostrils of her aristocratic nose 
quiver like a rabbit’s. 

The “charming husband” was, however, perfectly 
happy. He was also not a little proud of his wife’s 
popularity—his eyes would follow her round the room 
as she danced after dinner, never forgetting to throw 
him an adorable smile as she drifted past, or played 
deck-golf and shuffle-board, her straight figure, in its 
simple white gowns, moving with the grace and swift¬ 
ness of an athletic boy. 

Terence enjoyed the voyage as much as his wife 
did. If he did not have her as much to himself as he 
could have wished,' yet there were compensations. 

There were nights when they sat in their deck-chairs 
on the cool, deserted fore-deck, watching the smooth 
snake-like sheet of rippling water, that gleamed with 
a strange, lustrous darkness under the stars, and talk¬ 
ing in the soft, hushed tones that the night demanded. 
Then through the gloom Deirdre’s face would shine 


THE MOVING FINGER 


179 


white like some strange tropical flower, framed in the 
black softness of her hair, and her dress, too, would 
gleam pale as the petals of a magnolia blossom. 
Terence would sit watching her in silent ecstasy— 
watching the little shadows round her mouth, the wide, 
deep softness of her shadowed eyes. Oh, certainly, 
there were compensations. 

And New York itself, once reached, fulfilled all 
Deirdre’s dreams. They took a suite at the Plaza, and 
proceeded to enjoy life in the way that is only possible 
if one marches under the twin banners of Wealth and 
Youth. Yet, although New York fascinated and 
stupefied her, it did not make the same appeal to Deir- 
dre as London had done. 

“Now York is intensely alive and noisy, and full 
of pep,’’ she said to Terence one day as they were 
walking up Fifth Avenue. “But London is more 
personal. One is like a very jolly acquaintance—the 
other is an intimate friend.” 

Terry agreed heartily—he had the true English¬ 
man’s love for London. 

“Tell you what—shall we take the next boat home?” 
he enquired hopefully. 

''Silly —of course not! Why, I haven’t half seen 
all I want to! Besides, we’re going to California!” 

So to California they went—to Los Angeles, where 
they saw the huge glass studios of the film colony, 
and, to Deirdre’s unfeigned delight, caught a brief 
glimpse of a small, slim young man who was pointed 
out to them as the One and Only Charles Chaplin. 

And then it was home again—home to dear, smoky 


i8o 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


old London, beginning to yield to spring’s kisses— 
home to the big house in Clement Street, with its 
wrought-iron gates, its lofty rooms. 

Almost as soon as they settled down Olivia had 
appeared upon the scene to spend her holidays with 
them. Mrs. Bellamy, it appeared, had quite suddenly 
developed bad health, for which change of air was 
imperative. So “Green Gables” had been sold, and 
they rented a villa just outside Mentone, which ar¬ 
rangement pleased Ralph Bellamy, now retired from 
business, not a little. 

Terence and his wife had stayed with them there 
for a week on their way from Italy. Mrs. Bellamy 
seemed subtly changed, and even happy in a quiet 
way. As for her husband, he had the dazed air of a 
man who is in Paradise, and dreads the moment when 
he shall find it is but a dream. Deirdre had been oddly 
touched—she could not have said why. 

II 

Of all this Deirdre was thinking as she sat before 
the glass in her white and gold bedroom. She was 
very happy—quietly happy. Terence had been to her 
like a calm, safe port after storm. He had taken 
such care of her—nothing was too good for her in his 
estimation. 

After two years of married life he still felt a small 
tingling shock of delight when he saw her—was still 
discovering fresh beauties about her hair, her eyes, 
her long, slim hands. Deirdre noticed the little ways 


THE MOVING FINGER 


i8i 


in which he tried to please her—the dull books he read, 
that he had seen her reading, the flowers that always 
appeared mysteriously with her morning tea—hund¬ 
reds of little things like that. It all touched and 
pleased her very much, although it struck her as a 
little pathetic—that dog-like wish to please the Loved 
One. 

Terry could not understand her—he never tried to 
—she was gloriously remote and rare. Her thoughts 
instead of keeping to the earth flew among the stars 
like birds. It was a touch of genius which had made 
the Dowager christen Deirdre “Swallow.” There was 
something swift and fine about her—she skimmed and 
darted through Life just as a swallow skims and 
darts over a field of clover, the dark sapphire of his 
breast and narrow wings flashing against the rose- 
scarlet of the flowers. Terence did not attempt to 
follow her—he just watched patiently until his beau¬ 
tiful bird should swoop to earth again. But he 
pathetically tried to please her—to bring his intellect 
up to the level of hers. And they managed, notwith¬ 
standing the extreme difference in their temperanients, 
to be very happy. 

Even as Deirdre sat there, absently twisting the big 
square emerald on one of her fingers round and round, 
the door flew open with a crash and Olivia skimmed 
into the room. 

At seventeen Olivia was making a fair bid to being 
a beauty. The period when she had been all long 
arms and legs and crumpled pink gingham had vanish¬ 
ed, and now, although she was tall, there was grace 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


182 

in her slender height. She would never be as lovely 
as Deirdre, for her mouth was wide, though well 
shaped, and her nose had a decided tilt which lent an 
added piquance to the vivid face. Everywhere she 
went Olivia was a favourite, although she was still 
something of an “enfant terrible,” and the violence 
of her temper had increased rather than decreased with 
time. Yet everyone loved her, temper and all into the 
bargain. There was something about the glowing face, 
crowned with its boyish mop of dark curls, that 
strangely attracted. 

She entered the room in her usual whirlwind 
fashion, whistling “If Winter Comes” like a shrill 
bullfinch. 

“Halloa!” she said breezily. “Aren’t you ready 
yet, old thing? The c-car’s at the door, and Terry is 
champing round ye N-noble Hall gnashing his teeth.” 

They were going that night to Covent Garden to 
hear Callaveni sing in “Madame Butterfly.” Olivia 
was in a ferment of excitement. She preened herself 
like a gay little peacock in front of the big mirror, 
lifting up the rosy pink cloak to admiringly contem¬ 
plate the pearly chiffons beneath, and the small silver 
brocaded feet. 

“I must say,” she said complacently, “I don’t look 
b-bad. As for you, darling, you look a peach! I say, 
aren’t you ready? We s-shall be awfully late.” 

Deirdre smiled, sighed, and got up, holding the 
Spanish scarf round her shoulders. 

“I’m quite ready—to be truthful, I have been for 
the last ten minutes.” 


THE MOVING FINGER 


183 


‘* 0 -oh—I suppose you’ve been sitting with that 
far-away expression thinking of g-goodness knows 
what, haven’t you? You always used to get those 
fits, even at ‘Green Gables’—they used to g-give me 

the p-p-pip-” She saw a large silver-framed photo 

of Mrs. Bellamy on a side table, and made a face at 
it. “Why on earth s-stick that old d-d-devil’s phiz 
up like that—as large as life? Goodness knows, we 
don’t want to r-r-remember her!” 

Deirdre frowned. 

“Shut up, Liv. You’re not to say things like that!” 

Olivia raised her black brows to a comic height. 

“And since when did this t-t-touching solicitude be¬ 
gin ? You usen’t to be as good as all that, my dear.” 

“I know—^but She’s different now—honestly, Livvy. 
I think She’s sorry—just as I am. After all, she’s our 
mother-” 

''Mother!” Olivia’s red-flecked eyes flashed with 
scorn—-she stamped her small, sandalled foot. “Oh, 
she’s reformed, has she? Wants to do the Reconci¬ 
liation Act? Well, she sh-han’t! N-n-n-not with me, 
anyway! Mother! Why, I’d rather call old N-Nick 
‘Mother’ than her!” She hitched up her rose velvet 
cloak and departed, throwing over her shoulder: “Do 
buck up! We shall c-cut it awfully f-f-fine!” 

Deirdre followed more slowly. 

She found Olivia, now quite unruffled, dancing the 
tango with her brother-in-law in the hall. Howard, 
also spending the holidays with them, was looking on 
and applauding. He took her arm as she came down 
the wide staircase. 




1 84 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Here she is—at last! Dash it, what a time girls 
take just putting on a gew-gaw like this!” 

And he twitched a corner of the wonderful Spanish 
shawl. The two stopped dancing—Olivia skipped 
through the glassed-in portico and down the steps to 
where the Rolls was waiting. Terence managed to 
murmur to his wife as they followed together: 

“You look topping, darling—absolutely stunning!” 

In every dress he saw her in it was the same— 
Terence was one of those simple souls who are con¬ 
tinually finding fresh wonders in the things they pos¬ 
sess. And Deirdre was so unexpected. When he 
thought that he knew her inside out he would dis¬ 
cover something new which before his slow eyes had 
passed over—^the delicate blue traceries of a vein in 
the pearly smoothness of her arm, a lilac shadow in the 
clustering hair by her little ear, the way that her 
eyes had of warming into laughter before her mouth 
did. 

It was all very bewildering and beautiful. And, 
when in the darkness of the big car, he felt her hand 
creep into his big one, in thanks for the praise, life 
just then was very sweet to Terence Liscarney. 

But Deirdre felt a heavy sense of oppression. She 
had that delicate seventh sense which gave her the 
power to know when something important was going 
to happen. Her sensitive being felt something vaguely 
electric in the air—a feeling evidently not shared by 
the other three, who sat laughing and chattering, look¬ 
ing out at the lighted streets. But Deirdre sat silent, 
wishing she was not going to the opera. She pictured 


THE MOVING FINGER 


185 


herself sitting with a new novel in her white and gold 
boudoir at home—the tall orange-shaded lamps would 
be lit—she would be sitting among the cushions on the 
sofa, with Sam the Sealyham curled up on a fold of 
her skirt. Mentally she gave herself a shake, trying 
to stave off that heavy sense of foreboding. She began 
to laugh and joke with the others—but at the back of 
her laughter it still lurked, like a serpent coiling among 
roses. 

They had certainly ‘‘cut it very fine,” as Olivia had 
predicted. They just had time to enter their box and 
settle down when the curtain rose. Deirdre forgot 
her fears in the beautiful music—listening dreamily 
with half-shut eyes. Callaveni was singing in it—it 
seemed incredible that so slight and small a woman 
should have such a magnificent voice. It soared with¬ 
out effort, like a bird’s—Deirdre thought, as she had 
often thought—“I’ll never sing again after this—it 
would seem like desecration.” 

The great prima donna was unique in one respect— 
she could act as well as sing. The child-like pathos 
of the character she created was wonderful. Poor 
little Madame Butterfly—such a slight, pathetic figure 
in her coral-pink kimono, with her pale face, her tragic 
eyes. 

Deirdre was somehow glad when the interval came; 
she could not have said why. Suddenly she wished 
that they had gone to “Frills” at the Gaiety, or some¬ 
thing jolly like that—this was so dreadfully sad, and 
she did not want to be sad that night. 

She turned to Howard (Olivia was still speechless 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


186 

from the shattering effects of her first opera) and 
began to talk almost desperately lightly. Terence had 
left the box. 

Howard was quite unaffected by the music—^his was 
a stolid soul. He looked at the people in the boxes 
through Deirdre’s opera-glasses. 

“Who’s the old girl in black, with diamonds, like pul¬ 
lets’ eggs all over her ? By Gad, what diamonds! She 
looks like one of those blue velvet necks you see in 
jewellers’ windows—absolutely blazing! My hat, 
that’s a stunning girl in pink with her I Do you know 
who it is, Deirdre? She looks a ripper-” With¬ 

out waiting for an answer he rattled on gaily. “Look, 
that’s Fifi Fiora, isn’t it? In a red affair, with the 
old johnny with white whiskers-” 

Deirdre looked, and nodded. 

“Yes—the ‘old johnny’ is Prince Ponkoffri.” 

“I say, not really? She looks rather stunning, don’t 
you think. Livvy, your idol, Fifi Fiora, is in the box 
opposite!” 

Even the mention of the lady who a few months 
ago had adorned her bedroom on glossy picture post¬ 
cards failed to rouse Olivia. Through her sensitive 
little being still soared and thrilled the glorious voice 
of Madame Butterfly. . . . 

“Oh, shut up,” she said crossly, “I don’t care if 
it’s the Archangel G-Gabriel—only do be quiet!” ' 

Howard looked at her with comical pity. 

“How have the mighty fallen!” he said to Deirdre. 
“Tell you what it is—she hauled me off to take her 
to the ‘Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse’ last week, 



THE MOVING FINGER 187 

and now she’s got a crush on Rudolph Valentino! 
That’s it, isn’t it, Baby?” 

Deirdre left them bickering, and scanned the house 
with the glasses Howard had discarded. 

It was a brilliant assembly. The lights glistened 
on orders and jewels, on pearly shoulders and softly 
waved hair, on the beautiful dresses of the women and 
the uniforms of the men. Another time Deirdre would 
have been enjoying herself immensely—taking in the 
brilliant scene with the keenest zest. But to-night even 
her powers of enjoyment seemed dulled. The heavy 
sense of oppression was weighing her down. She 
watched the people listlessly, picking out a famous 
Cabinet Minister, a great novelist, a world-famous 
actress, still regally beautiful in her golden cloak, with 
its huge collar of white fox. She became conscious 
that her heart was beating faster—that even the hand 
that held the glasses was a little unsteady. 

Then Terry was beside her—she felt it, although 
she did not turn. She heard his voice, boyishly excited. 

“Deirdre, such luck! I ran against Wynd- 

ham—you know, I told you about him—my fag at 
Winchester! Haven’t seen him for three years!” 

Deirdre made an effort to rouse herself—^to shake 
off that dreadful feeling of doom. 

Terence’s gay, excited voice—pride was in it too. 

“I brought him along with me. Jingle, this is— 
my wife!” 

Deirdre turned, smiling. 

She found herself looking up into the laughing dark 
eyes of—the boy in Gilly’s Wood. . . . 


i88 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


III 

They stood looking at each other for what seemed 
eternity. Deirdre felt the colour slowly ebb from her 
face. She saw laughter die in the dark eyes, to be 
succeeded by a terrible strained look that made his 
young face look suddenly old. 

Then Deirdre did the bravest thing of her life. She 
laughed—and Heaven knows what it cost her, that 
natural, light laugh. 

“Why, we’ve met before, I think!” 

He recovered himself—only Deirdre’s eyes saw that 
mental pulling together and squaring of shoulders. 
There was something a trifle defiant in it. 

“How funny that we should meet like this 
again I” 

Terence delighted, but a little bewildered, looked 
enquiringly from one to the other. 

“But I’ve spoken to you of Jingle, Deirdre-—often, 
and you’ve never said anything!” 

Suddenly she was feeling amazingly clear-headed 
and steady—perfectly mistress of the situation. * 

“Why, you old silly, you said his name was George 
Wyndham! And it’s Guy—not George!” 

“Oh Lord, did I? Well, we always used to call 
him Jingle at school! But it’s topping—absolutely 
topping that you’ve met each other before!” 

He looked from one to the other with affectionate 
pride. Only Olivia, looking on in her corner, sensed 
the vague tenseness in the situation. Terry was as 
happily oblivious as a child. He turned to answer a 


THE MOVING FINGER 189 

laughing remark of Howard’s, and Deirdre and Guy 
were left together. 

He sat down by her, still looking at her with the 
old, audacious gaze. Something told her that now the 
audacity was put to veil a hurt—a suddenly laid bare 
wound, guarded by the spangled gossamer of Laugh¬ 
ter. Now she could see him properly for the first 
time. He had not changed. There was the same 
thin, dark-skinned face, with its well-cut, sensitive 
mouth, its very bright dark eyes under their black 
brows. He was as tall as Terry, but of quite a different 
build—long-limbed and slender, with the broad shoul¬ 
ders and narrow hips of a thoroughbred. 

This was the face she had looked for in crowds at 
the theatre, in shops—to find it now—too late. She 
realized the truth she had refused to believe—that it 
was inevitable that Guy Wyndham should ride back 
into her life again, as suddenly as he had left it. De¬ 
creed by Fate—the Will of Allah- 

Suddenly she came back to herself with a start. Her 
surroundings had given place for a moment to the 
bluebell lacquered slopes of Gilly’s Wood, where she 
had sat looking into those same dark eyes. . . . 

“Callaveni is singing divinely to-night, isn’t she?” 

^ ‘Magnificently-’ ’ 

The curt word seemed to tick in her brain, like a 
clock—“Magnificently. ...” It suddenly struck her 
as absurd. Why had he not said “Awfully jolly!” as 
Terence would have done ? Or anything but that one 
word. 

“Magnificently . . magnificently. . . .” 




190 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Then the lights went out—Deirdre was glad. The 
darkness was round her—enveloping her, like cool, re¬ 
freshing water. She heard Terence : 

“Who are you with—the Landals? Well, you can 
stay for this Act, old boy, can’t you?” 

He stayed. She did not look round, but in every 
fibre and nerve of her she felt his presence. Once she 
turned her head and saw him looking at her—looking 
intently, strangely, in the old, remembered way. She 
found herself remembering lots of little things—the 
way his nostrils quivered, like those of a sensitive, 
thoroughbred horse when he was excited or moved by 
anything. The way his mouth curled in that half-mock¬ 
ing, half-tender smile. The lazy huskiness of his voice. 

Mentally she shook herself, forcing her mind to for¬ 
get. . . . Callaveni’s glorious voice, soaring in sob¬ 
bing catches and trills, like a nightingale among the 
syringas singing in the June dusk- 

“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my 
sense. . . .” 

The words slipped into Deirdre’s thoughts like a 
string of pearls—a trickle of moonlight. 

Olivia was crying—the tears wet on her cheeks. 
Even Howard was listening raptly, and with a queer, 
stirred feeling of emotion. But for two people in the 
box the opera meant nothing. Deirdre listened me¬ 
chanically, the beauty of that golden voice vaguely 
saddening her. 

“My heart aches . . . my heart aches ...” 

She gripped her hands together, so hard that the 
big square emerald bit into the flesh. 



THE MOVING FINGER 


191 

The lights went up again, after the great waves of 
applause had subsided. Wyndham and Terence were 
talking—then Terence’s voice came to her. 

“I was just saying to Jingle that he must come and 
dine with us to-morrow, and that in August he must 
come to Greyfriars, Deirdre-” 

'‘My heart aches. . . .” 

And then- 

“Ah, God—don’t come, don’t come!—I can’t bear 
it—oh, coward, coward! My heart aches. . . 

Only Guy saw the supreme courage of her smile. 
There was something of the fighting spirit in her green 
eyes. 

“That will be splendid! We will expect you to¬ 
morrow, then? Good-bye—it was so nice seeing you 
again!” 

She felt exactly like a mechanical doll—a puppet 
playing a part. He took her cold fingers in his warm 
ones, and bowed over them with a touch of foreign 
grace. Then he was gone—Deirdre saw him reappear 
in an opposite box. 

The rest of the time was like a nightmare. She felt 
Olivia’s remarkably shrewd eyes looking at her once 
or twice, and her relentless courage flogged her droop¬ 
ing spirits onward. She was gay—recklessly, defiantly 
gay. All at once her lips gained bloom, and her eyes 
sparkled. Terence looked at her proudly as she chat¬ 
tered and laughed with an almost hectic rose staining 
the smooth whiteness of her skin. 

Then it was all over—thank God, it was all over. 
The brilliant, laughing crowd in the foyer—out into 




192 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


the night air—the cushioned warmth of the big car. 
Deirdre sank back in her corner, her eyelids drooping 
like weary white petals on the rose of her cheek. 
Dimly she heard the other three talking, laughing, 
criticising. 

“I think that f-friend of yours is a darling, Terry,” 
Olivia was saying. “Is he an Italian? He looks it— 
that black hair, and those lazy dark eyes. Did you 
n-notice his voice? All sort of d-drawl-ey and 
soft-” 

Howard gave a shout of laughter. 

“Now she’s off! So Rudolph Valentino has been 
given the go-by for this new hero has he? Oh ye 
Family, prepare yourselves for hymns of praise about 
his ‘lazy eyes,’ and his ‘divine smile,’ and ‘drawl-ey 
voice’ for a week or so, until Livvy goes and gets a 
crush on Matheson Lang or the Prince of Wales or 
someone like that I” 

“Oh, shut up, you reptile!” said Olivia crossly. 
“Terence, if you want to do me a f-f-favour, take this 
out and drown it! Only mind the p-p-p-pond’s deep 
where you p-push him in! But, seriously, is that boy 
Italian, or S-s-spanish, or something exciting? I can 
just imagine him being the idol of S-spain, like that 
matador in ‘B-b-blood and Sand,’ or having a mur¬ 
derous v-v-ventilator with an enemy-” 

Howard gave another bellow. 

“Bless the child! It’s ‘vendetta,” Miss Malaprop, 
not ‘ventilator’!” 

“Oh well, it’s n-near enough!” said his sister with 
unruffled calm. “Do tell me, Terry—I am hugely 




THE MOVING FINGER 


193 


th-thrilled!” And in withering aside—“I can. see 
you g-g-grinning, you fool, so you needn’t think I 
c-can’t!” 

Terence, who was extremely fond of his small but 
volcanic sister-in-law, hastened to settle the question. 

‘T believe there’s Italian blood somewhere in Mrs. 
Wyndham’s family—I know loads of people take 
Jingle for a Spaniard or Italian. But it’s ripping see¬ 
ing him again—the last time I saw him was when he 
and his mother came to stay at Greyfriars, nearly three 
years ago.” He turned to Deirdre—“Isn’t it topping 
seeing the old fellow again, Deirdre?” 

She tried to shake off the stupor that weighed her 
down. 

“Awfully topping. . . 

He heard the weariness in her voice. 

“Why, littlest, I believe you’re dead tired! I shall 
tuck you up in bed myself-” 

Deirdre smiled drowsily—what a darling Terry 
was! 

The car was stopping—she braced herself to get 
out, to walk across what seemed acres of glistening 
pavement. It had beeii raining a little—an April 
shower. There was a delicious softness in* the air— 
over the trees sailed the thread of silver that was the 
new moon. Something made her pause on the steps 
and look across the silent road to the white house with 
its green sunblinds—to the unlighted window behind 
which she had slept so many happy nights. I'hen she 
turned and followed her sister into the hall. 

Soup and sandwiches were waiting for them. Deir- 



194 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


dre declined both, and started to mount the seemingly 
endless stairs to her bedroom. Up and up—she started 
counting them mechanically—one, two, three, four 

- Her bedroom at last. A rosy fire was leaping 

on the hearth—she felt glad of its warmth. The yel¬ 
low-shaded lamps looked like glowing tulips of light 
—there was a bowl of lavender-streaked iris on a side 
table. 

Deirdre sat down in one of the big black and gold 
arm-chairs and leant back among the soft Chinese blue 
cushions. She had told Parker not to wait up for her. 
Presently she roused herself and started to undress. 
Terence came in when she was plaiting her hair. She 
smiled at him rather wanly. 

“I loved it to-night, Terry darling.’^ 

“But you’re tired now. Baby—don’t pretend you’re 
not! ril put you to bed every night myself at six 
o’clock in future.” 

She put the tortoise-shell brush with its gold crest 
down, and turned, still smiling. In a black and gold 
kimono, with glimpses of a lacy, palest yellow crepe 
de Chine nightie underneath, she looked about twelve. 
Her face between the heavy braids of black hair, was 
pale as a crescent moon. 

“But I’m not as stupid as all this generally, am I, 
Terry?” 

“It’s not stupid—it’s just the adorable thing a baby 
like you might be expected to do.” He became sud¬ 
denly severe and business-like. “Now then, are you 
ready? One, two, three—here goes!” 

Lord Liscarney picked up his wife as if she was the 



THE MOVING FINGER 


195 


baFy he called her, marched across the room, and put 
her down on the bed. Off came the kimono, off came 
the little fur-lined satin mules. Then he pulled up the 
bed-clothes, punched the pile of frilly pillows, and 
tucked her in with an air of professional nonchalance 
which was really very funny. Sleepily she watched 
him putting her clothes in a neat pile on a chair, and 
by their side her silver slippers, looking like two forlorn 
little feet. 

Then the lights went out, and in the rosy gloom he 
bent down to kiss her. Warm bare arms went round 
his neck, and a small voice whispered: 

‘‘Terry, you darling!’’ 

It was ample reward. Terence went out walking 
on air. 

Left alone in the fire-lit darkness, Deirdre lay think¬ 
ing of many things. The dearness of Terry, and her 
own unworthiness—Guy’s eyes, strained and horrified 
—no, no, she must not think of that. She would see 
him again to-morrow—^was she glad or sorry? A 
small voice within her whispered that she was neither 
glad nor sorry, but afraid. Afraid—of what? Swift 
came the answer. The power of Fate. . . . 

Deirdre set her teeth hard. A touch of the death¬ 
less courage which had served her soldier ancestors 
well—at Agincourt, Sedgemoor, Waterloo—flamed in 
her again. She would fight—and win—for Terence’s 
sake, for her own sake. But chiefly for Terry’s. 
Terry, who loved her. Terry, who had told her, with 
love in his frank eyes, that she “couldn’t do anything 
that wasn’t straight and open and honest-” 



196 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Well, she would be straight—she would play fair, 
keeping to the rules of the Game with him. 

And yet- 

'‘We can’t fight against it; it’s—Kismet.” 

The words came back into her memory. Kismet— 
the Will of Allah. But she would fight against all the 
Fates in the world, and win through—for Terry’s 
sake. 

Her brain began to get clouded. Things all jumbled 
together in it. Madame Butterfly, in her coral-pink 
kimono—Terence, tucking her up and kissing her,— 
someone saying that it was Kismet—impossible to 
fight,—Kismet, the Will of Allah—a boy’s voice— 
dark eyes,—and bluebells- 

Deirdre fell asleep. 



CHAPTER VII 

COURAGE 

I 

At luncheon the next day Terence said suddenly: 
“By Gad, I forgot all about to-night! Hang it all! 
Deirdre, Fve got to go and take the chair at that con¬ 
founded dinner—you know, the Wanderers’ Club! 
And old Jingle’s coming along.” 

Deirdre played with the long string of jade round 
her neck. 

“Shall I ’phone and put him off then?” 

“Oh—no—you and he will like to have a pow-wow, 
I expect. It’s rotten luck, though. Never mind—I 
want him to come down to Greyfriars for Easter.” 

They were all going down the following Wednes¬ 
day. 

Howard grinned. 

“That will be fine for Livvy. You’ll have the time 
of your life, won’t you. Babe?” 

Olivia ignored him with pointed scorn. 

“Where does your Jingle hang out?” 

“He has chambers at the Aldwyoh—^just come back 


197 


198 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


from Venice, where his mother died last winter. Been 
living there for some time.” 

Venice—she had been there for months and had 
never seen him! It struck Deirdre as ironically humor¬ 
ous. 

‘‘Why didn’t you look him up when we were there?” 

“To tell you the truth I never knew he was there! 
I heard from him in Florence about two years ago, and 
then—^well, sort of drifted apart. It was just luck 
that I ran into him last night.” 

“Has he any people?” 

“None that I know of. Good old Jingle, we must 
see a lot of him now.” 

So when Guy Wyndham was shown into the large 
Louis Seize drawing-room that night he found only 
Deirdre awaiting him—Deirdre in a black gauzy dress 
that made her arms gleam pearly white, with her black 
hair swept high and caught above the ear with a silver 
filagree comb. 

The unexpectedness of her standing slim and 
straight in the soft rose-shaded light made him wince 
as if from the sting of a lash. After a formal greet¬ 
ing they stood looking at each other, quite quietly and 
gravely, as the hoy and girl of Gilly’s Wood had done. 
Yet there was Something underneath the look, some 
subtle question and answer asked and given in silence. 
Suddenly Deirdre remembered herself. 

“Won’t you sit down? Olivia and Howard will be 
here in a moment.” 

They sat down side by side on a low couch. Sam, 
the Sealyham, feeling something vaguely disturbing 


COURAGE 


199 


in the air, sat between them, watching intently with 
his bright, intelligent eyes. Again a little silence fell, 
broken only by the grinding of taxis and the roar of 
distant traffic outside. There were flowers everywhere 
—a crystal bowl of tight yellow tulips among their 
crisp shiny leaves, jars of pheasant’s eye narcissi and 
golden jonquils, filling the air with heavy fragrance. 

Deirdre was the first to break the silence. 

“Why didn’t you come again?” she asked quite 
simply and directly, knowing that they were both think¬ 
ing of their last meeting in Gilly’s Wood. 

Guy did not answer at once—he sat with his dark 
head bent, fondling the little white dog. Deirdre 
watched, with a curious intentness those long brown 
fingers caressing the soft ears. 

‘T never mentioned my father to you, did I?” 

She shook her head gravely. 

“He and my mother were parted when I was only 
a kid. That afternoon we got a cable saying that he 
was dying in Florence. She had loved him all the 
time, I think—she went to him at once—I had to go 

with her-” He lifted a face which was suddciily 

strangely haggard. “Oh, God, Deirdre”—the half- 
agonized cry burst from him—“I tried to get to the 
Wood—to leave a message for you—to tell you my 
name. But we left at once—my mother was ill— 
everything was in a muddle and confusion. It was 
only later on that I realized—I had lost you-” 

She felt amazingly calm, cool-headed and sane. Her 
voice was very gentle when she spoke. 

“Guy—all that is over now-” 





200 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Yes—it’s all over—now.” He smiled at her with 
a gallant return to his former imperturbability. 

They smiled at each other, making a gallant show 
of bravery. 

“And you were staying at the time-?” 

“At Grey friars. Yes—funny tricks Fate plays 

sometimes, doesn’t she?” 

“And afterwards-?” 

“My mother never came back to England. Her 
health was absolutely broken down. She bought a 
villa in Venice, and lived there until—last winter-” 

Deirdre looked at him with the soft, shining eyes he 
remembered so well. 

“I know—Guy, I’m sorry—more sorry than I can 
say.” 

He said brusquely: 

“I believe you are-” 

Again there was a tiny pause. Then Deirdre: 

“Did you stay in Venice, too?” 

“Only for vacation—I went up to Oxford, as I told 
you I was going to do. Once or twice I went down to 
Bamberly—hung about the town and the wood in the 
hopes of seeing you. But you were never there-” 

“No, I was gone,” said Deirdre quietly. 

The door flew open with a crash, and Olivia, late 
as usual, flew in, a whirl of filmy skirts and flying feet, 
pursued by Howard, roaring with laughter, just as 
the gong rang. Their coming relieved the tension. 
Explanations as to Terry’s absence being rather tardily 
given, the four went in to dinner. 

It was a merry little meal. Guy had shaken off his 






COURAGE 


201 


mood, and kept them all laughing. Deirdre, too, 
seemed to have gained brilliance and life—her eyes 
shone, her mouth curved. Many were the airy little 
verbal skirmishes she and Guy had, in which honours 
were fairly equally divided. Olivia thought shrewdly, 
watching the two with keen eyes, that it was almost 
too clever to be natural—it was as if they were rattling 
off a part they had learnt. Now and again their eyes 
would meet over the silver bowl of rosy tulips, meet 
again in that odd question and answer, that demand¬ 
ing and reassuring, a challenge flung down and 
snatched up defiantly, proudly. . . . 

After dinner the drawing-room again, with its 
shaded lights, its bowls of flowers. Deirdre wished 
restlessly that they were on the moors, with the wind 
blowing in their faces, with heather and bracken un¬ 
derfoot, instead of this atmosphere of flower-scented 
warmth and luxurious beauty. She went to one of 
the long windows that opened on to a wide balcony, 
and flung it wide. Outside it was a mild, warm night, 
powdered with stars in a clear purple sky. Guy 
watched the slim black figure, standing there with her 
arms outspread, holding back the doors—on the stone 
outside her shadow fell in the shape of a cross. . . . 

She came back and sat down in a big chair near the 
window, and called to Olivia to play something. 

Olivia sat down at the big grand piano at the other 
end of the room, with Howard standing by her. Guy 
fetched over a dumpy pouffe and sat down by Deirdre’s 
chair. They were practically alone—the other two 
were paying no attention to them. 


202 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Olivia had dashed with reckless rhythm into “And 

Her Mother Came Too-’’ Her sister called out 

sharply: 

“Not that, Livvy! Play something that 1 like 

_ 

Olivia cast an impish look over her shoulder, hesi¬ 
tated a moment, then plunged with her usual impetu¬ 
osity into the wailing discords of a Hungarian dance. 

Two years of study under a good master had far 
removed her from the days of the torturing “Jolly 
Peasant.” Her technique was far from good, but she 
had a certain flair for interpreting music well—^almost 
a genius for bold splashes of colour, for putting life 
and soul and her own vivid personality into the music. 
To-night she was on her mettle—she made of the Hun¬ 
garian dance a weird, barbaric, haunting thing— 
primitive yet plaintive, full of savage passion, but still 
grippingly pathetic. It fitted in with Deirdre’s mood 
—she listened to the minor melody with an aching 
heart. 

Then Guy was speaking very low. 

“So you escaped after all, Deirdre?” 

She nodded without speaking, her eyes very brave. 

“Terence is a fine chap—a splendid fellow, I am 
glad you are happy, Deirdre.” 

Again she bent her head, not speaking. 

That music—^haunting, wailing, in its barbaric dis¬ 
cords. 

“Did you forget me?” she said softly—“I won¬ 
dered if you would-” 

“No - ” said the boy curtly. “No-” 







COURAGE 


203 


It was true what he said. He had never forgotten 
her. When he was at the ’Varsity—at Venice—in 
London—in his gayest, maddest moments a sudden 
memory of her face would come back to him—her 
face with its shining eyes, its childish innocence—a 
memory of her forlorn, wistful voice—“You’ll have 
people to love you—I have no one. I shall be alone 
again—all alone ” 

Anger had always flooded him when he thought of 
this—anger against her mother who “hated her”— 
blind, helpless anger against himself for losing her 
after he had found her. These fits made him ex¬ 
tremely miserable—the knowledge of the hopelessness 
of ever finding her again. As he had said, he went 
down to Bamberly several times, and made fruitless 
enquiries. Terence was away—on his honeymoon, 
he was told. Oh, the irony of it all. As he thought 
of it bitterness flooded his soul—^yet when he looked 
up the dark eyes were clear and steady. 

“If only we had told each other our names!” 

“It was my fault— all my fault-” 

The minor movement had ended, to give place to 
a crashing tumult of wild exultation. 

Deirdre said suddenly: 

“And your writing—what about that, Guy?” 

He seemed to rouse himself. 

“My first novel is to come out next month,” he 
said. “It’s the first thing I’ve done, except a short 
story or two-” 

“But that’s splendid, Guy! I knew you’d get on! 
I said so! What is it called?” 





204 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


'^Search,” he said briefly, not looking at her. 

Olivia had slipped from the plaintive finale of the 
Hungarian dance into one of Chopin’s waltzes. Deir- 
dre was glad somehow—the wild music had touched a 
chord in her, intensified some vague, aching longing 
which disturbed her gallant poise. This was more 
soothing—it was like a cool breeze, a few lines of 
Shelley- 

The music had ceased abruptly. Olivia slipped off 
the piano stool and came forward, her filmy skirts 
whisking. 

“There!” she said gaily. “My f-fingers are all tied 
up in a knot I Now, Deirdre, you must sing^do b-be 
a lamb! Have you ever heard her sing, Jingle?” She 
added with a funny look of mingled audacity and 
apology—“Do you mind if I c-call you Jingle? I 
can n-n-never remember s-surnames!” 

“I should love you to!” said Wyndham gallantly. 
“Everybody does!” 

She perched on the arm of Deirdre’s chair, her 
pretty feet swinging. 

“Why do they c-call you J-j-jingle!” she asked with 
interest. 

“Oh, I don’t know! Nicknames never have much 
sense in them, do you think ? They gave me the title 
at school—^because someone said I was ‘always jingling 
off chunks of poetry, even in my sleep!’ The idea 
stuck—so you behold me to this day!” 

Olivia said reflectively: 

“Oh well, it’s n-n-not so bad as nicknames go! 
They’re f-feeble things, though, as you say. But now, 



COURAGE 


205 

darling, d-d-do go and sing something. I haven’t heard 
you for ages!” 

Mechanically Deirdre obeyed her. There was a book 
of Chaminade’s Songs open on the rack. She started 
to play the aocompaniment. 

Guy listened to the clear voice, a sick misery per¬ 
vading his soul. 

Then he lifted his head, and saw Olivia looking at 
him with shrewd brown eyes. Perhaps she saw the 
misery in his face that he had not time to hide, for 
swift sympathy stole into those steady eyes. 

She knew nothing of what had happened—-did not 
even know where her sister had met this boy—but 
she guessed with remarkable shrewdness more than 
either of them knew. And she leant forward swiftly, 
and said one brief, curt word— 

“Steady 

They looked at each other for a minute silently. 
Warning was mingled with the sympathy in those 
brown eyes. A defiant courage was in the darker ones 
looking up at her. Then Guy smiled, with a return 
to his old, gay audacity. 

“Thanks, my dear,” he said gently. 

He knew that he had gained a staunch and invalu¬ 
able ally- 

Later on, when he had gone, Howard started to 
tease Olivia. 

“Bad luck, old dear! He wasn’t so smitten as you 
thought he’d be, was he? Ah well, try, try again is 
a good motto to fall back on!” 

His sister turned on him in a sudden fury. 



206 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Oh, g-go to Hell!” she said angrily, and tore like 
a small whirlwind out of the room. 

II 

Greyfriars in Spring. 

Deirdre had never been there before—or rather, 
only for a flying visit—but never as its mistress. As 
the car turned in at the wrought-iron gates, with its 
fierce, crouching stags guarding it, she looked out of 
the window with sudden eagerness. Yes—there was 
the humped, fairy-tale lodge, in its garden all gay 
with blowing daffodils and stocky hyacinths, pink 
and blue, and—yes, there was the very same sleek 
black cat, sitting on the pocket handkerchief lawn, 
rounding off an ear with the aloof nonchalance of a 
Chinese madarin. 

“Well!” said Olivia. “For goodness’ sake look at 
Deirdre! You’d think someone had left her a 
f-f-fortune! Do you feel very happy, honey?” 

“Awfully!” said her sister, and smiled into Terence’s 
eyes. 

Greyfriars in Spring- 

How beautiful it was! The old Tudor House with 
its pointed turrets, its many windows, seemed to lay 
a gentle hand on the turmoil of Deirdre’s thoughts. 
It was as if it said—“Look at me, standing here so 
serenely! I am old, centuries old. I have seen wars 
and sadness and tears—^but I hide it all under my 

calm dignity-” The dear old house—it always 

reminded her of a grande dame —some old marquise 
or duchess, perhaps—in her faded glories, serene, 




COURAGE 


207 


dignified, perhaps a little aloof under her gentleness. 
It taught Deirdre many lessons, that old grey house, 
with its quiet beauty- 

Along the west side ran a long terrace, whose flights 
of mossy steps were bordered with brave splashes of 
iris. The gardens round the house were enclosed by 
a high wall from the rest of the park, broken at inter¬ 
vals by quaint wrought-iron gates, each with their 
fiercely crouching stag a-top. 

Grey friars Park was famed for its chestnut trees. 
The long avenue was bordered with them—their 
delicate rose white flowers lay thick in the road, like 
sunset flushed snow. The gardens themselves were 
ablaze with colour. Daffodils danced under the trees, 
tulips and blood-red wallflowers stood cheek by jowl, 
fragile orange-eyed narcissi jostled with dumpy hya¬ 
cinths, the big orchard was a misty veil of blossom, 
the snowy white of plum and pear, the faint pink of 
apple. 

Spring went to Deirdre’s head. She never looked 
more vividly, startlingly beautiful. Olivia, too, seemed 
to throw off all restraint, and become again the hoyden 
Olivia, with her curly bobbed hair, her short skirts, 
her swift feet. She played many a heated set with 
Howard on the hard court—she took Terence's best 
driver and practised shots in the park—she climbed 
all the trees in the orchard and nearly drove old Hobbs, 
the head gardener, into a fine frenzy. 

They were all happy at Greyfriars, from Terence, 
who had Deirdre to himself all day, to the Sealyham, 
who, directed by the other canine members of the 



208 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


menage —a red setter, two fox terriers, and a fat St. 
Bernard puppy—had discovered that the park was 
the haunt and rendezvous of—rabbits! 

Terence was always happiest when at Greyfriars. 
He was not fond of society, and dreaded the hectic 
whirl of the London season. The estate was his one 
consuming passion—he ran it on model lines, was a 
hard-working, conscientious landlord, and took a keen 
interest in all agricultural matters. His tenants adored 
him—he listened to all their grievances, and was fair 
to every one of them. Terry’s idea of bliss was to 
tramp round the estate in disreputable tweeds, with a 
pack of dogs at his heels, and generally to play the 
part of a model landlord. Deirdre was pleased to see 
his utter absorption with his farms and tenants—he 
was happy, and engrossed with several new schemes. 

On Easter Saturday the guests arrived—Guy Wynd- 
ham, Gervase Wycome, and Dahlia, who, in the teeth 
of parental opposition, had married him the month 
after Deirdre’s own wedding. With them was to come 
the Hope of the Wycomes—Rupert Terence, a stout 
fellow of one and a half, who for obvious reasons, 
had been dubbed “Porthos” by his father. The same, 
shortened to “Porthy,” and, by that hero himself to 
‘‘Porzie,” had stuck, to the great vexation of his fond 
mamma, who, when she remembered, addressed him 
as “Rupert.” 

Much as Deirdre looked forward to seeing them 
again, yet with her anticipation was mingled a faint 
dread of—she could not say what. 

The afternoon of their arrival she stepped out from 


COURAGE 


209 


the long windows of the drawing-room on to the 
terrace, in search of Terence. Hobbs was weeding 
a'bed of flamboyant peacock tulips just outside, humped 
up on a square of matting like a deformed mushroom, 
and informed her that “ ’is lordship” was in the Walled 
Garden. So to the Walled Garden she went, keeping 
in the shade as she walked along, to escape the blaz¬ 
ing sunshine. 

It was a favourite haunt of her own—^the quaintness 
of it delighted her artistic soul. It was cheek by jowl 
with the orchard—over the high, mellow wall that 
surrounded it hung the delicate frosty icicles of plum 
and pear, tumbled the rose white cataracts of apple 
blossom. Against the warm brick of the walls were 
nailed neat fans of almond blossom and victoria plums. 
The garden itself was paved—^tufts of lavender- 
flowered thyme and rosemary stuck up in the cracks 
of the grey mossy stones. The beds round the walls 
were a sweet, scented tangle of flowers, with even a 
currant bush, and a plebeian raspberry cane or two 
among their more aristocratic neighbours. In the 
very centre of it all was a quaint old sun-dial, raised 
on a dais of two steps. Engraved round its mossy 
dial were two lines from an old poem which pleased 
Deirdre for their originality and gentle charm— 

^‘Howe coulde suche sweete and wholesome houres 

Be reckon’d, but with herbes and flowers!” 

In one corner of the walled garden was an odd 
little thatched summer-house, humped up like a pixy’s 
toad-stool. It was towards this that Deirdre, standing 


210 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


in the open doorway with one hand on the sun-warmed 
brick, looked with laughter in her eyes. 

As she had expected, Liscarney was sprawling in a 
wicker chaise-longue, with Sam sitting on his chest, 
and the red setter flopping in the shade. He had, as 
usual, a cigarette between his teeth, but what sur¬ 
prised Deirdre was that he was reading. “One of 
Nat Gould’s, I expect,” she thought, smiling, as she 
shut the little green door and crossed the paved court, 
pausing by the sun-dial to trace out its inscription with 
the tip of one slim brown finger. 

Terence sprang hastily up, with a start which shot 
the injured Sealyham into space. Deirdre noticed 
that he had stuffed his book hastily behind the cushions, 
and was wearing the half guilty, half defiant look of a 
small boy caught smoking Woodbines in the boot- 
hole. 

She greeted the two dogs, pushed him gently back 
into the chair, and perched on the arm of it, rumpling 
his beautifully brushed fair hair with one hand. 

“Well, my lord!” she said cheerfully, “what dark 
crime have you been committing? You look quite 
ashamed of yourself I Now, Terence Michael Liscar¬ 
ney !” 

She slipped a hand behind the cushions, and drew 
out the book. It was a fat edition of Byron’s poems. 
Terence and Deirdre looked at each other—the former 
could not have looked more guilty if he had been 
caught in the act of forging his father’s signature. 

Then Deirdre spoke, with an odd little quiver in 
her voice: 


COURAGE 


2II 


^‘Terence, don’t dare deny it! You’re boring yourself 
stiff wading through these because I like them I” 

He avoided her eyes. 

“Oh well, I remembered you spouted a lot of ’em in 
Venice, and it dawned upon me that it must be jolly 
boring living with a chap who doesn’t even know if 
Byron wrote the Canterbury Tales or ‘Here you are 
then!’ So seeing this mouldy old—seeing this book 
in the library, I thought I’d cart it along with me and 
have a stab at it, so that next time I’ll know something 
about the old boy-” 

Terry was surprised and gratified when long young 
arms went round his neck, a soft cheek was pressed to 
his, and Deirdre said in a queer choked voice: 

“Terry, you darling! I’ve told you dozens of times, 
and I tell you again, that you’re much, much too good 

for me- Fancy boring yourself stiff, poor boy, 

just because-” 

“Oh rot!” said Terence awkwardly. “I was just 
enjoying myself when you came along. It’s not half 
bad in bits—Listen to this: 

“ ‘She walks in beauty like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies—’ 

“Now, I’m not much of a one for poetry, but I 
think that sounds ripping-” 

Deirdre kissed him. 

“You Peter Pan—will you ever grow up?” 

“Not for some time, I hope! But, I say, Deirdre, 
why was old Byron such a gloomy bird? The last 





212 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


one gave me the pip,—I had to wipe my eyes on Sam’s 
whiskers—^Listen: 

‘When we two parted 
In silence and tears 
Half broken-hearted, 

To sever for years, 

Pale grew thy cheeks and cold. 

Colder thy kiss: 

Truly that hour foretold 
Sorrow for this!’ ” 

He read it with a comical air of melancholy and a 
deplorable lack of expression and punctuation, but 
Deirdre listened with a very tender expression in her 
eyes. 

“Have you read anything else in this private literary 
course of yours?’ she asked when he had finished. 

“Well, I remembered you saying how fine Dante 
was, so I took the old fellow up to bed with me the 
night before last, and tried to have a shot at him, but 
I—er—I didn’t get very far. Not, mind you, that he 
isn’t awfully fine and all that—it’s that I haven’t got 
the ability to grasp the fineness!” 

Deirdre said softly: 

“Much as I love you for doing it, darling, yet I 
should be pleased if you wouldn’t bore yourself any 
more with my silly old Dante and Byron-” 

“But it’s good for me—honestly, Deirdre! I mean 
to say, it ‘exercises my brain,’ as m’tutor used to say! 
By Jove I I like you in that white thing, Littlest 1” 



COURAGE 


213 


He put an arm around her a little awkwardly—he 
was always a little awkward with Deirdre—there was 
something so fine and delicately remote about her that 
he feared to touch her, in case, like a fragile piece of 
spun glass, she should shatter to bits under his clumsy 
fingers. He loved that remoteness of hers—that little 
air of giving all, and yet holding aloof something— 
some intangible mystery, some shady green pleasance 
in her soul. 

Generally she was a little undemonstrative—to-day 
however, she came close to him, and played with the 
brown hand she held, flattening out the fingers with 
the tips of her own rosy ones, telling the tragic saga 
of the Little Pig who stayed at home on them, press¬ 
ing the palm to her cheek. Then she said suddenly: 

‘T wish the others weren’t coming to-day, Terry! 
I wish we could be by ourselves-” 

It was exactly what Terence wished, and he could 
not restrain in the look of rapture that stole over his 
face at her words. 

“Do you, Deirdre—do you honestly?” 

“Yes—'I don’t know why, but I do. Does it sound 
very inhospitable of me? But we’re so happy now—” 

“Yes, we’re happy all right, by Jove!” 

He sighed long and rapturously, and captured the 
small, tanned, fluttering hand in his own. The Sealy- 
ham was walking round the sun-dial with an erect 
stern and lifted nose. Then he padded Tack, made a 
dart at the recumbent setter’s long tail, sniffed con¬ 
temptuously at the volume of Byron, which lay on 
the floor, and then got up on the chaise-longue again, 



214 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


flopping with a grunt on top of Terence’s long legs. 
Outside in the sunshine two white butterflies began 
their aimless fluttering ballet, chasing each other over 
the court. A shaft of sunshine struck on a tangle of 
tawny orange wallflowers under the shelter of the wall. 

Deirdre pointed to them. 

“Hobbs calls these ‘Gillystocks’—pretty, isn’t it?” 

“It’s what the villagers call them round here. I 
like the name better myself than ‘Wallflowers.’ Hobbs 
is an ardent admirer of yours, Deirdre-” 

“I return the compliment!” 

Terence shifted his legs to the great annoyance of 
Mr. Weller, who found himself sliding off. 

“They all love you, Deirdre—Hobbs, Jenkins, from 
the kid at the lodge to Littlejohn, the High Priest of 
the Pantry! It’s extraordinary how you bowl them 
over—a sort of gift, I suppose.” He lit another de 
Reszke cigarette and leant back, watching the smoke 
curling away through half-shut blue eyes. “Now, it’s 
a gift that my mother hasn’t got. She and the servants 
never get on. Yet she is supposed to be a very charm¬ 
ing woman—funny, isn’t it?” Deirdre, thinking of 
the hard, expressionless eyes, thought that it wasn’t, 
but she did not say so. “She is so fond of you, 
Deirdre. It’s a blessing you took to each other, for 
I mean to say, it would have been the deuce if you 
hadn’t!” He chuckled softly, little wrinkles puckering 
up the corners of his mouth and half-shut eyes. 

Deirdre, feeling a dreadful hypocrite, laughed too. 
Yet she had a conviction that, as surely as she disliked 
her, the Dowager returned her dislike. When the 



COURAGE 


215 


two were together, they were always watching each 
other, covertly, like two wild beasts on the defensive. 
This, however, Terence did not see, and she was glad 
of it. 

Then Terence said lazily: 

“What time do they arrive?’’ 

“Guy’s train gets in at 3.20—the car’s gone to meet 
him now—Dahlia and Gervase get here a little later— 
5.15, I believe. They’ve been staying at Spindle wood, 
you know.” 

“Oh, then old Westcote has buried the hatchet 
with Gervase?” “I knew he would—not alone because 
of Gervase’s success, but Dahlia is his favourite—and 
—well, Porzie settled the question once and for all.” 

“A ripping kid, that Porzie-” 

“Yes—” 

Again a little silence. The setter snapped at a dron¬ 
ing bumble-bee that had disturbed his siesta. 

Deirdre sat with one arm round Terence’s shoulders, 
the other hand in his, her cheek resting lightly on his 
hair. It was very hot. Outside the two white butter¬ 
flies fluttered out from the tangle of cherry blossom 
hanging over the wall into the sunshine. Deirdre 
watching them, said slowly: 

“Terry, you’ve never regretted the bargain you 
made ?” 

“Bargain—what do you mean?” 

“Our marriage-” 

Just for a moment his pleasant face looked dis¬ 
tressed. He twisted his head and looked up at her 
with troubled blue eyes. 





2i6 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


''Deirdre, I wish you wouldn’t say things like that!” 

“Like what?’ 

“Calling our—our marriage a bargain-” 

“Well, it was, wasn’t it?” 

“I don’t know—it seems”—he flushed a little like 
a schoolboy—“like—like profaning something sacred. 
You know what I mean.” 

Deirdre laughed a little very tenderly. 

“Darling, that shows you haven't regretted it! But, 
after all, marriage is a bargain, if you come to think of 
it. Some people expect to get too much for their share 
—others don’t keep to the rules of the game—they 
cheat. Terence, I’ve tried to play fair with you-” 

“If you mean that you’ve made me happy, you 
certainly have.” 

“Honestly, Terry—honestly and truly?” 

“Honestly and truly!” 

“And you haven’t regretted it since?” 

Again his nice eyes looked distressed. 

“Deirdre, I wish you wouldn’t-” 

She rumpled the tawny hair. 

“Very well, you old darling, I won’t. But it makes 
me happy to think that I’ve made you happy! I 
like you to be happy, Terry, and I think white flannels 
suit you rippingly, and I love you very much for 
being such a darling to me, and-” 

Terence kissed her. 

And it was so that Guy Wyndham, entering the 
Walled Garden, found them. 

Neither of them noticed the tall figure standing in 
the arched doorway in the high red wall. He stood 





COURAGE 


217 


for a second watching them with perfectly inscrutable 
dark eyes. In that second he noticed with extra¬ 
ordinary minuteness a lot of little things—^the warmth 
of the sun on his bare head, the deep, hot fragrance 
of the gillystocks, a thrush from the orchard who was 
accusing someone with shrill, chuckling emphasis. 

^‘Thief! Thief! Thief! Th-thie-e-ef!” 

Then the Sealyham cocked an ear and growled, 
recognized the tall Man god who had taken him on 
his knees and rubbed his ears, and burst forth with a 
shrill and effusive welcome. They all saw him: Ter¬ 
ence gathered his long person up from the chaise- 
longue, Deirdre sprang to her feet and came out from 
the cool shade of the summer-house into the glare 
of the sunshine. 

'‘Guy!’' she said. "Oh, I am so sorry that I wasn’t 
at the house to meet you. Did you have a good 
journey?” 

"Quite decent, thanks,” he said, smiling. "The 
train only stopped ten minutes at each station, which 
I believe is quite a record, isn’t it? Halloa, Terry, 
old man—how brown you are already! You’re looking 
splendid!” 

"I feel it,” said Terence, grinning his wide, charm¬ 
ing grin. "Sam, get down! He’s taken a deuced fancy 
to you, Jingle!” 

They were standing by the sun-dial. Guy bent and 
slowly read out the blurred inscription: 

" ‘Howe collide suche sweete and wholesome houres 
Be reckon’d, but with herbes and flowers—’ ” 


2I8 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


‘1 rather like that;—it’s so refreshing after all 
those-” 


“ 'I mark none but happy hours - 

'‘It always seems to be so smugly complacent, that 
motto—sort of patting itself on the back for it.” 

Deirdre’s laughter flashed out. 

“Exactly what I think! There’s another sun-dial 
in the rose garden, too, but that, thank goodness, has 
a fairly original inscription-” 

“What’s that? Don’t tell me it’s 'Gather ye rose¬ 
buds while ye may,’ or I shall have to be assisted out 
of the garden.” 

“No, it’s nothing so trite. It has- 

“ 'Light and shade by turn, but Love alway-’ ” 

Guy suddenly bent his head and picked a sprig of 
lemon-scented thyme with precise care. When he 
looked up again his eyes were audacious. 

“That has an Ella Wheeler Wilcox flavour, some¬ 
how! I prefer the ‘Sweet and wholesome hours’ 
one-” 

“He’s a prosaic fellow, Deirdre,” said Terence, 
shaking his head. “Never can strike even a spark of 
sentiment from Jingle. You’ll have to take him 
in hand and see if you can’t complete his education.” 

Just for a second their eyes met. It was like a 
flash of steel meeting steel—a swift thrust, a swifter 
parry. Then Wyndham bowed sweepingly. 






COURAGE 


219 


“I shall be honoured,” he said, smiling, and put 
the sprig of thyme in his coat. 

Deirdre watched the brown fingers with a curious 
intentness. She felt that they were both playing a 
part—playing it, it is true, with extraordinary skill 
and brilliance, but, nevertheless, feeling that their 
dialogue was theatrical their laughter forced. It 
haunted her—that sick feeling of unreality. It was 
like watching silent shadows play out a piece on the 
cinema screen—not flesh and blood people, but moving 
phantoms- 

Terence said gaily: 

“Shall we go round the gardens? There’s plenty 
of time before tea. Would you like to. Jingle?” 

“Rather!” 

“Right-oh—ril just bunk up to the house first, and 
get a sunshade for Deirdre. A weakness of hers— 
dashing roimd in the sun without anything on her 
head! First time I saw her I had to drop on her for 
it!” 

He made a face at her, and with a “Wait for me 
here,” went at a brisk sprint through the arched door¬ 
way and out of sight. The other two followed more 
slowly, Sam and the setter in bored attendance. 

Outside they stopped. They were in the big kitchen 
garden, a favourite spot of Deirdre’s. She liked its 
quaint charming stiffness—a stiffness which seemed as 
if purposely arranged to intensify the charm. After¬ 
wards, looking at an old Dutch painting in the National 
Gallery—a mellow interior, austere yet warm, with 
the sunlight flooding through the open doorway on to 



220 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


the peasants’ wrinkled faces, the stiff linen of a cap, 
the dark, polished wood of a cradle one of the women 
was rocking—Deirdre remembered the kitchen garden 
at Greyfriars. There was the same fascination about 
them both—that quaint, deliberate austereness, that 
sort of stiff charm. 

Peaches and nectarines were trained up the walls. 
There were rows of beans straggling up pyramids of 
brushwood, asparagus waving its feathery green, beds 
of modest young strawberry plants, spinach, and the 
rose-red leaves of beetroots in orderly battalions. A 
colony of mint and a fat hedgehog-like clump of thyme 
made the warm air fragrant in the shade of the silver¬ 
leaved raspberry canes. A little edging of trim box 
enclosed all the beds like a neat green ruff, and the 
borders were gay with tawny wallflowers and little 
frilly buttons of double daisies. 

Deirdre stood with one hand on the warm brick of 
the wall, as she had stood watching Terence, and 
lifted her face, snuffing up the drowsy, murmurous 
scents of the garden like a young war-horse entering 
the field of battle. Guy stood with his back to the 
wall watching her. When she turned and met the 
intent look, a delicate wave of colour ran up under 
the smooth, faintly tanned skin. She turned away— 
watching the Sealyham trot up the tiled path to in¬ 
vestigate a droning burr that came from the clump of 
thyme. 

Guy leant against the wall, battling with an over¬ 
whelming desire to put out his hand and lay a finger 
on that rose-brown cheek—just to feel its smooth 


COURAGE 


221 


warmth, the velvety touch of it. The clock in the west 
turret struck four, very faintly, with a cracked, plain¬ 
tive note. Everything was very quiet—sleepily quiet. 
Through an archway they could see one of the garden¬ 
ers busy among the tomato frames. As he worked 
he whistled in soft snatches an air from “The Gon¬ 
doliers’’—the thin trickle of sound seemed in no way 
to disturb the sleepysilence of the afternoon. 

Deirdre felt desperately that she ought to say some¬ 
thing, yet the drowsy spell of silence held her in its 
grip. The Sealyham trotted back, sneezing with a 
comical look of surprise—the thyme had tickled his 
nose. He flopped on to the warm tiles and made dabs 
at the tip of Deirdre’s white buckskin shoe, his pink 
tongue lolling. 

Then Terence came back, branishing a rose-pink 
sunshade like a flag—both of them were glad of his 
return. 

“Now, come on,” he said, unfurling the parasol over 
her head. “Let’s go through the orchard—^we can 
come out from it into the Water Garden. By Jove, 
isn’t it hot! Just like July-” 

They passed through a low arch, festooned with 
ivy, in the red brick wall that intersected the large 
kitchen garden, into the orchard. A little path of 
rough paving-stones had been made through the long 
aisles of trees. The twisted boughs hung weighed 
down with their loads of bee-haunted blossom—faint¬ 
est pink and snow white the orchard lay, like foamy 
fairy lingerie for an elfin bride. In the long grass the 
last gay straggles of the daffodils raised their golden 



222 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


trumpets. A row of white beehives stood in a little 
clearing, overhung by a tinted torrent of apple blossom. 

“Fine year it’s going to be for fruit,” said Terence, 
complacently, looking up at the rose-white mosaic of 
bloom against the blue sky. “Never seen such 
blossom.” 

Neither of the others answered, so he rambled on. 

“You must have brought us luck, Deirdre. Last 
year we were in—let’s see—we were just back in 
town from Nice, weren’t we? Anyway, Hobbs said 
that the crop was absolutely a dead failure—the frost 
got it, and then the blight was ‘somethink hawful.’ 
He is very bucked this year. He says it’s the Wee 
Folk who have removed a curse from the house— 
Hobbs believes very solemnly in the Wee Folk.” 

“So do I,” said Deirdre, “terribly solemnly.” 

“I know—I believe you are one of the Wee Folk 
—I said so to Hobbs. I informed him that your 
birthday was on Midsummer Eve and that therefore 
you were fully qualified to remove all curses.” 

“What did he say?” 

“Oh, he blew his nose, and said awfully solemnly— 
‘Pussonally your ludship, pussonally I shouldn’t be 
surprised. ’Er leddyship, beggin’ your parding, ’as 
heyes o’ the Wee Folk’s colour, and that may show 
that They,' with a capital, you know —'they ’ave taken 

a fancy like for ’er-’ I didn’t dare laughs—it would 

have oflfended the old boy so. Funny old beggar, 
Hobbs—quite a family heirloom. My grandfather 

handed him down to father, and so on- Come on, 

we’ll cut through this into the Water Garden.” 



COURAGE 


223 


They passed through a tiny wicket gate, along a 
winding path, and down a flight of wide, shallow 
steps. 

Terry pushed open a high, wrought-iron gate, and 
they entered the Water Garden. It was a beautiful 
sunk garden, paved with stones of a queer, greenish 
colour. A sunk pool was in the middle, covered with 
the shiny, flat leaves of lilies. Soon the waxen flowers 
and buds would appear. The brink was massed with 
clumps of iris—clear, pale yellow and the deeper 
purple, standing among their tall green blades. In 
the centre of the pool was a bronze water nymph, 
poised slim and supple on one foot, with the pipes to 
her laughing mouth. 

Guy sat down on the tiled edge, and looked at the 
nymph. 

'‘That’s rather a decent bronze,” he said. “It wasn’t 
here when I came last time-” 

“No, we bought it in Rome,” said Terence. “Or 
rather, Deirdre spotted it and dragged me off to inspect 

it-” He looked at Guy’s absorbed face, as he 

examined the statue. “You and Deirdre are very 
much the same,” he said suddenly. “You both go 
mad over bronzes and music and sunsets—I’m such a 
fool that I don’t—Deirdre went mad over Venice, 
and it left me cold. I wish I was like you. Jingle— 
crazy on beauty. It’s a gift, I suppose, that I haven’t 
got.” 

They both detected the wistful note in his voice. 

Guy said hastily: 

“Rot, you silly old ass!” 




224 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


And Deirdre took his arm and squeezed it. 

“It’s not a gift,” she said. “It’s a curse. Be 
thankful you haven’t got it, Terry! I put too much 
value on beauty—I can’t live without it. It’s like 
taking drugs, in a way—it becomes a horrible habit 


She dropped his arm, her face clouding. 

“The irises look lovely to-day-” 

“Yes, but it doesn’t look really very much until 
the lilies come, and the forget-me-nots, and those tall 
blue things—lupins—all along that wall. Then it 

really is ripping. It-by gad, that dog’s going to 

fall in!” 

Even as he spoke, the Sealyham, who had been 
balancing on the edge watching the goldfish that 
slipped in and out of the weeds, overbalanced and 
turned a complete somersault into the water. He 
came to the surface with a spluttering “Wuff!” and 
paddled with every appearance of enjoyment, twice 
round the bronze nymph, at last condescending to be 
dragged out by Terence. He reminded Deirdre of a 
child who in play, falls down, and says with a beaming 
smile—“I meant to do that!” 

The other two walked slowly to the gate, while 
Terence followed with the dripping little dog. At the 
foot of the steps they paused, and looked at each other. 

“You have a very beautiful place,” said Wyndham 
slowly. 

“Yes-” said Deirdre heavily, “yes-” 

She turned and began to mount the steps, walking 
as if she was tired. 







COURAGE 


225 


III 

Rupert Terence Wycome was playing a little game 
of his own on the lawn in front of the terrace assisted 
by Mr. Weller, his faithful adherent. The game con¬ 
sisted of walking with unsteady solemnity for a few 
yards, and then sitting down with a glorious 'Tlop!” 
on the warm grass, clutching at the Sealyham’s tail 
as a handy support. Then you got up and began 
again. The best moment of the whole thing was when 
you sat down with the “Plop!”—there was something 
vaguely soul-stirring about this. But it was all very 
exciting. Mr. Weller assisted with every sign of 
loving, if mystified good-will. Sometimes Porzie 
would not get up at once, but lie rolling on the daisied 
turf, gurgling hoarsely. This was the time when Sam 
really shone. He would make dabs at those fat, kick¬ 
ing brown legs, or dart at the waving arms. Porzie 
received this brilliant piece of work with rapturous 
shrieks of applause. 

Dahlia sat on the terrace above, a novel in her lap 
—not reading, however, but watching her son play. 
Occasionally he would turn his round face towards 
her for applause for an especially shattering “Plop!” 
Then she would smile and say, in the fond, foolish 
fashion of past, present, and future mothers— 
“Splendid, darling! Lovely! Oh, do be careful,, 
Porzie dear!” On which the superior male would 
throw her a glance of scorn, and rise, divinely and 
unsteadily, to his feet once more. 

Out to the terrace came Deirdre, looking like a 


226 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


slender boy in her trim grey riding-habit, pulling on 
her gloves. 

'‘Halloa!’' she said. “Sure you won’t change your 
mind and come ?” 

“No thanks, my dear. I have a new novel here, 
and am feeling terribly lazy. Besides, Porzie would 
raise a howl if I departed.” 

Deirdre rested a hand on the stone balustrade, and 
looked out at the small blue-overalled figure rolling 
over on the grass. 

“Bless him, how he enjoys himself! He’s going to 
keep that red hair of his. Dahlia !” 

“Heaven forbid!” 

“Oh, but why? I think it’s lovely with dark 
eyes!” 

“Not on a man—the poor child will get his life 
teased out at school!” 

“Well, it’s a long time off yet, anyway! And it’s 
too dark red to be called ‘Ca;rrots,’ if that’s any 
consolation.” 

Dahlia stuck a cigarette into a long, slim jade 
holder, and lit it, watching Deirdre lazily through 
half-shut eyes. 

“Can’t you find a more energetic person than me 
to go with you, darling?” 

“Terry and Gervase have gone to play golf, and 
Howard and Olivia are nowhere to be found. I 
think they’ve borrowed the little Wolseley and gone for 
a trundle round. I hope they won’t get killed or 
arrested, or anything-” 

She spoke carelessly, tapping her crop against the 



COURAGE 


227 

tip of her beautifully cut riding-boots. Dahlia flicked 
the end of her cigarette before replying. 

^‘And what about the fascinating Jingle ? Isn’t 
he on the premises?” 

Deirdre dropped her crop and bent to pick it 
up. 

“I really don’t know. I think he went for a walk 
or something by himself.” 

“You knew Jingle some time ago, didn’t you?’^ 
asked Dahlia casually, yet watching Deirdre through 
the lilac haze of her cigarette. 

“Yes-” said Deirdre. 

It was only one word, quite naturally spoken, yet 
to Dahlia’s quick senses it was a warning—“Thus 
far and no farther.” 

“I did too,” she said thoughtfully. “I met him 
at Terry’s three or four years ago. Even then he 

was an extraordinarily handsome boy-” She said 

with startling suddenness. “Don’t you like Jingle, 
Deirdre?” 

Deirdre shot her a quick, sidelong glance. 

“Yes, of course! Why?” 

“Oh, only because you seem to purposely avoid 
him all the time. But that’s only my fancy, I sup¬ 
pose.” She looked at Porzie who, crawling on all 
fours, was now imitating a tiger with striking success. 
Mr. Weller, tiring of the sport, was impersonating 
the Sleeping Beauty in the kindly shade of a cedar 
tree. “He will be marrying soon, I suppose,” said 
Dahlia. 

Deirdre’s hand tightened on her riding-crop. 




228 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


‘*He’s very young/’ she said with another quick 
glance at Dahlia. 

“Yes—he will be twenty-three in August, I think 
it is. Still he has a good income of his own—Mrs. 
Wyndham was well off, you know. And this book 
of his is going to make a great stir, from what one 
can gather.” 

“I am glad- Dear me, to think that we have 

two geniuses in the house—Guy and Gervase! I knew 
that Gervase would make a hit one day, Dahlia!” 

Dahlia, noticing this neat turning of the conversa¬ 
tion off Wyndham, smiled a little. 

“Oh, he happens to be the rage just now! It’s 
mere luck, really, if one catches the public eye or 
not. His book of caricatures is coming out in the 
Summer, and there’s going to be an exhibition of 
them at the Griffon Galleries in a fortnight.” 

Although she spoke casually, she could not keep a 
ring of pride out of her voice. Deirdre bent and 
hugged her. 

“I am so glad. Dahlia dear! I always predicted 
Gervase’s success! Now I must fly—Jim has just 
brought Milord round to the door! You are a lazy 
brute not to come with me, but I forgive you—Cheer- 
oh!” 

Dahlia watched her out of sight and then looked 
thoughtful. 

“I—wonder—” she said slowly, and, still thought¬ 
fully threw away her cigarette and began to read. 

Jim, a red-haired youth with a grin and freckles 
as countless as the stars, had brought Deirdre’s horse 



COURAGE 


229 


round to the front door. Milord was a big, bad- 
tempered chestnut, with satiny flanks and a nervous, 
rolling eye. 

“ ’E’s very fresh to-day, y ladyship,” said the 
flaming-headed Jim with a covert “Stan’ still, y’divil!” 
as Deirdre came round the side of the house. 

“All the better!” she said, smiling. “We’ll have 
a fine gallop. Whoa, my beauty! Now then, Jim 
—let go!” 

Jim let go, thankfully, and watched the big horse, 
after a few nervous prancings, go at a fast pace out 
of the big court, through the high wrought-iron gate, 
and out into the wide avenue. Here Deirdre turned 
him into the turf, and they pounded at a reckless 
gallop towards the South Lodge. The pace, reckless 
though it was, was not fast enough to please her. 
She bent low in her saddle, the wind stinging her face, 
hearing the springy turf thunder under Milord’s hoofs. 
Yet she had him well in hand, so that when in passing 
the Dower House she saw the Dowager standing on the 
steps, she reined him up at once. The big horse stood 
panting, fretting to be off once more. 

“Halloa, mater!” said Deirdre smiling. ‘T was 
coming down to see you to-day.” 

The Dowager, tall and broad-shouldered in an an¬ 
cient tweed coat and skirt, looked up at her daughter- 
in-law with a smiling mouth and quite expressionless 
eyes. 

Deirdre’s cheeks were flushed, her hair was wind¬ 
blown under her felt hat. She sat in her saddle looking 
down at the Dowager, laughing like a gay boy. 


230 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


‘‘Riding that vicious brute again? Terry ought not 
to let you, Swallow!” 

Deirdre fondled the “vicious brute’s” satin neck. 

“Terry spoils me,” she said, smiling. 

The Dowager’s tone was a trifle acid, although she 
still smiled broadly—the smile that Deirdre mistrusted. 

“So it seems! But you must be careful. Swallow 
—Milord has a vicious temper. But I mustn’t keep 
you—I just want to know if you all will come to 
dinner with me to-night. I haven’t seen dear Gervase 
^yet, or that charming young Wyndham.” 

“Thanks awfully, mater—^we shall love it,” said 
Deirdre untruthfully—there was nothing she dreaded 
more than a meal eaten under the cold eye of her 
mother-in-law. “Have you seen Terry to-day? He 
has gone golfing with Gervase—good-bye—8 o’clock 
then—Milord won’t stand still another second!” 

She nodded her head, laughing, touched Milord 
with her crop lightly, and the big horse plunged for¬ 
ward, settling into a long, raking stride that covered 
the ground amazingly quickly. 

Once out of the Lodge gates, horse and rider 
trotted along the lane, up Heron Hill, between the 
woods and the high banks starred with primroses, 
out on to the open Down—Milord lifted his head and 
whinnied with excitement—the girl laughed, excited 
too, with her cheeks glowing, her eyes shining. She 
felt a little fey that day, perhaps, and she wanted to 
clear the memory of Dahlia’s words out of her brain. 
Up here the wind was blowing, not roughly and 
keenly, as it had done that day up on the Ring. This 


COURAGE 


231 


was a vagrant wind, that romped past them like a 
hoyden, warm and thyme-scented, that went a little 
to the head like a rare old wine. 

They galloped up to the very crest of the ridge, 
where she reined him in and sat looking down at the 
view before her. There was Greyfriars, or what stood 
for Greyfriars—a tall chimney or two, a grey wall, 
among the chestnut trees of the large park. And, 
nestling in the hollow beneath her, was the warm red 
roof of Gilly’s Farm. She could hear the barking of 
a dog from the yard, and the clanking of pails from 
the milking shed. 

The big horse moved off down the steep little path, 
picking his sure-footed way with high stepping 
daintiness over the rough stones. 

Instead of going back the same way, they turned 
to the right over a field, and through a gate. Now 
to the right of them were the brown furrows of a 
ploughed field, to the left—Gilly’s Wood. 

She rode on until they reached a wide track leading 
into the wood, deeply rutted by cart wheels. Deirdre 
hesitated, frowning a little. She knew that a little way 
up the track was the clearing—the natural little hollow 
by the stream where she had met Guy three years ago. 
It was bluebell time now, and the slopes would be 
a-shimmer with blue, and the brook would be chuckling 
its elfin laughter over the smooth brown stones. Just 
for sentimental reasons she wanted one look at it— 
only one little look. She pushed back her glove and 
looked at her tiny wrist watch—it would make her a 
little late for tea. Still she hesitated—the sight of the 


232 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


wood would waken so many longings and memories 
and vain, poignant regrets. . . . 

Then Deirdre hesitated no longer. Her Spartan 
courage would not give way to anything in the nature 
of a weakness. “Coward!” she said aloud, her cheeks 
flaming. She swung herself down, and taking Milord 
by the bridle, led him up the track. As she had re¬ 
membered, there was the little path branching off to the 
clearing. Horse and rider went down it, the soil 
deadening Milord’s hoofs. They came out into the 
sunshine, into bluebell-lacquered hollow where the 
silver ribbon of the stream threaded its winding way 
through the green lace of ferns. 

And, standing with his back against the old beech 
tree, his dark eyes watching her, was Guy Wyndham. 

They stood perfectly still, looking at each other. 
It struck Deirdre that he had stood like that the last 
time she had met him here, and she had found him 
standing there again, as if he had waited for her all 
the years. Across the shimmer of the bluebells they 
looked at each other. . . . 

The years slipped away. It was a girl in a cotton 
frock who stood there, looking at a tall, dark-headed, 
dark-eyed boy—Just for a space Deirdre forgot- 

“Halloa!” said the Boy, like a child at a party. 

“Halloa!” said the Girl, smiling back at him. 

The bees were droning among the bluebells—^the 
sunlight filtered like greenish amber through the beech 
leaves. 

“Won’t you sit down for a little? Please—just to 
see you among the bluebells! Milord will be all right.” 



COURAGE 


233 


Obediently she dropped the reins and came over to 
him. They sat down among the mossy roots of the 
old tree—Deirdre with her arms clasped round her 
hunched-up, long legs. They looked at each other 
very softly, smiling-lipped. Involuntarily his eyes went 
to her feet, expecting to see the rose-white of her 
skin, instead of the black patent riding boots. 

Then the boy laughed, with back-thrown head, like 
a glorious young animal revelling in his strength. He 
looked at her with audacious dark eyes, and laid a 
quick brown hand over hers. She felt the long supple 
fingers close on it warmly, closely. 

“So Fve found you again!” he said gaily. “I 
knew that I would, Dear, I knew it!” 

Again they looked at each other, .triumphantly, 
tenderly. Then the spell broke—the enchanted moment 
fled. The laughing dark eyes suddenly seemed strained 
and deadly tired. He dropped her hand, and turned 
away. Then he said, not looking at her- 

“Fm sorry—I—forgot-” 

She, too, had forgotten. Memory returned with a 
sick rush of misery. They sat silent for a few minutes. 
Milord, in the background, was pulling at the leaves 
of a trailing bush, the sunlight glistening on his droop¬ 
ing satin-skinned neck. Except for the rustling of 
his movements, and the soft burring of the bees, 
everything was very quiet. 

Deirdre got up restlessly, a straight, slender, some¬ 
how rather pathetic figure. There was a drooping tired 
look about her—she was like a bird trailing a broken 
wing, or a child who has been hurt in her play. 




234 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Guy rose too, and suddenly he spoke, catching bold 
of her sleeve. 

‘‘Deirdre, why in Heaven didn’t you wait for 

She turned with quivering lips, looking up at him. 

‘‘I—I was afraid-” 

‘‘Afraid?” 

“That you—you wouldn’t come back for me. That 
you’d forget-” 

“But didn’t you know instinctively that I wouldn’t? 
Didn’t you know that nothing in the world would 
have kept me away from you? Deirdre, you ought 
to have known-” 

Silence again, a heavy little silence. It was broken 
by the blackbird, calling gaily, gaily, as if there was 
nothing unhappy or ugly in the world to mar the 
beauty of the day. 

Dear! De-ear! D-d-de-ear!” 

The boy lifted his head, smiling a little. 

“Listen to him! Do you remember?” 

“Yes, I remember-” 

Had she ever forgotten?- 

“What funny kids we were-” 

“Yes-” said Deirdre heavily, wearily. 

She leant against the tree, feeling deadly tired. She 
tried to rally her drooping spirits—courage—are you 
going to be a coward?—play up, old man!—courage 

“We must go now-*” She added with a little 

touch of rather pathetic dignity, “And Guy, we mustn’t 
think or talk of—of that any more. It’s finished now 
—all finished-” 











COURAGE 


235 


Oh, well played—well played indeed, sir!- 

She stood very erect and looked at him with an un¬ 
wavering, gloriously gallant smile. 

“Shall we go?” 

He followed her, leading the big chestnut horse, 
down the little path out on to the track again. They 
left Gilly’s Wood behind them. 

That night at the Dower House, the Dowager’s 
“darling Swallow,” in a dress the colour of a pale 
flame, was startlingly, vividly brilliant. She seemed 
to bloom like an exotic flower, to shine as if a light 
was burning within her. Like the swallow. she was 
compared to, she skimmed lightly through the con¬ 
versation, never touching on serious topics, keeping it 
all light and gay. After dinner she sat down at the 
piano and sang airy French trifles that reminded Guy 
of tinsel balloons floating in a Summer sky. 

Terence seemed delighted and a trifle surprised. He 
followed her with his eyes, that slender vivid thing in 
the flame-coloured frock. Once he said to Guy, with a 
rather pathetic pride, watching his wife as she sat in 

a big arm-chair and teased Gervase Wycome- 

“Deirdre’s wonderful to-night.” 

Guy watched her too. She had just said something 
clever that made Wycome laugh delightedly. Then 
she turned her head and looked at him, long and 
steadily, with a smiling mouth. 

“Yes,” said Guy Wyndham, “very wonderful.” 

Courage—it would not be for long- 

Courage . . . 




CHAPTER VIII 


THE DIVINE COMEDY 

I 

Next week the Wycomes went back to town and 
Howard to Oxford. Olivia announced that she was 
now “finished/’ and that the convent in Brussels would 
see her no more. 

“After all,” she said to her sister, “Fve learnt all 
they can teach me. I can s-s-speak French really welfi 
and all that. Now I intend to take up my m-music 
seriously.” 

Deirdre smiled a little—^the idea of Olivia taking up 
anything seriously was as remote as Paradise. 

“You’ll have to wait and ask Mother first. Perhaps 
she’ll want you to go over to her.” 

Olivia rolled her fine eyes. 

“What! M-me and Her shut up in a little box of a 
v-v-villa together all day? Not for ’dis chile! If I 
want fighting I can easily g-go to the m-m-monkey 
house at the Zoo. It will be more amusing and 1 -less 
expensive. No, darling, I shall stay with you”—she 
smiled ingratiatingly, showing her white, pointed little 
teeth—“that is, if you’ll have me.” 

Deirdre laughed this time, as Olivia rubbed her 

236 


THE DIVINE COMEDY 


237 


curly head against her arm like an engaging kitten. 

“And what if I won’t?” 

Olivia looked pensive, then brightened. 

“I could get a job in the chorus, I expect. It 
wouldn’t be b-bad fun, and I’d be in London. But, 
darling, I should be awfully useful to you—arranging 
f-flowers and writing your letters, and exercising the 
d-d-dogs, and—er—all that sort of thing. Besides, 
think how nice it will be having m-me—^the little 
S-s-sunbeam in the home!” she added hopefully. 

Deirdre looked at the vivid, eager face, and suddenly 
realized that it would be nice having her. She was 
gay and absurd and frivolous, and she would take 
her mind off—other things. 

“All right,” she said, smiling. “You shall stay, 
and I’ll bring you out, and present you, and marry you 
off to a duke. Only you must write to Mother— 
a nice letter, mind!” 

The “little Sunbeam” nearly strangled her in a warm 
embrace. 

“It shall be one long cringe in six reels!” she 
promised handsomely. 

So the “long cringe” was sent off, Mrs. Bellamy’s 
consent received, and Olivia’s conduct for the next 
three days was of an almost alarming piety. 

The day before the Wycomes went Terry sought out 
Deirdre as she was writing to Mrs. Bellamy in her 
sitting-room. 

After taking a restless turn or tvv^o round the room, 
picking up a Dresden cup and putting it down again, 
and staring fiercely at a small but exquisite Corot on 


238 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


the wall, he sat down on the arm of an arm-chair and 
looked at his wife. 

“I say, Deirdre!” 

Deirdre pushed back her letter and turned, smiling, 
her pen still in her hand. 

“We’re going to stay down here for another month, 
aren’t we?” 

“I think so, darling; don’t you? It’s so lovely now 
that it seems a pity to go back to town yet. Why?” 

“Well you know that Jingle is writing another book 
—so I thought that perhaps he’d like to stay down 

here until we go up to town ourselves-Fine place 

to write in, and all that. So just now I said something 
of the sort to him, and what do you think the queer 
fellow said?” 

Deirdre played with her pen—it was a large quill 
one, dyed a vivid orange. She ran the tip of a finger 
up its smooth feathers. 

“What did he say?” 

“Oh, something feeble about having to go back to 
town on business or something like that! Jingle is 
very funny lately—have you noticed it? He seems so 
much—older, somehow.” 

Deirdre put down her pen and got up. She, too, 
crossed the room and stood staring at the Corot. It 
was a tiny, characteristic landscape—a drooping birch 
tree, standing solitary by a stretch of dim, tranquil 
water, veiled in early morning mists. As usual the 
treatment of light and shade was magnificent. The 
whole thing had an enchanting grace, a fugitive air 
of Spring. 



THE DIVINE COMEDY 


239 


She stood staring at it with dull, unseeing eyes. 
Then swiftly came to a decision. 

‘‘I think he’ll stay if I ask him to,” she said simply. 

A smile broke through the gloom on Liscarney’s 
face—he had an almost childish faith in his wife. 

“By Gad, Deirdre, I wish you’d have a shot at it! 
It would be topping having old Jingle down here—I 
don’t think he has been feeling very cheery lately— 
perhaps his mother’s death knocked him out. Will you 
go and tackle him now? He’s in the Water Garden 
with Olivia.” 

As she passed him, he caught hold of her hand and 
kissed it. Deirdre felt a little pang of shame as she 
looked down at the bent fair head. . . . 

Guy was sitting on the raised stone rim of the pool. 
He had a book in his hand—Olivia was nowhere to be 
seen. Only Mr. Weller was sitting beside him, watch¬ 
ing the goldfish with rapt attention. 

Deirdre came down the steps slowly and crossed the 
paved court with rather reluctant steps. She stood 
with one knee on the parapet, looking at the bronze 
water-nymph. Then she turned, and said suddenly: 

“Guy, why are you going?” 

He was startled by the question—plainly startled. 
Just for a second something flamed up in the dark 
eyes, as if a curtain had been raised from a window. 
Then, just as suddenly, it was dropped. His eyes were 
perfectly inscrutable again, and warily watched her. 

“I thought of going abroad again,” he said formally. 

“Abroad?” 

“To my villa in Venice- 



240 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Venice—it would be Spring there now. She had a 
sudden vision of grey walls embroidered with droop¬ 
ing wistaria, of violets in the gardens of the Medicis, 
of the pale rose marble of the Doge’s palace reflected 
in the waters of the canal. Quite suddenly she thought 
of the Corot in her room. That was Spring too— 

Spring Incarnate—Spring in Venice- And she 

would be alone. Then she looked at him sideways, 
under her lashes, saw the set strangeness of his face. 
Terry was right—he looked older, much older. Quite 
different from the ardent-eyed, smooth-faced boy of 
Gilly’s Wood, with his glorious, swift, leaping Youth. 

A wave of tenderness swept her, and with it a sud¬ 
den consciousness of her own power. As before, when 
she had stood looking at herself in the misty white and 
silver cloud of her coming-out dress, it thrilled and in¬ 
toxicated her. Her long lashes hid her eyes, veiling 
the exultation in them. 

The bronze nymph stood poised in the sunlight, her 
flesh glistening with greenish-gold tints. A dragon-fly, 
a gorgeous, slim, glistening thing, skimmed its fragile 
wings over the still water. 

Deirdre rose to her feet. She stood looking down 
at him. 

“Guy, don’t go,” she said. “I don’t want you to 

He had sprung up too. They stood silent, staring 
at each other. In an odd, inconsequent way she re¬ 
membered her dream. It had been just like this— 
they had stood looking at each other thus, silently, 
intently. 



THE DIVINE COMEDY 


241 


Then he took a sudden step forward and stopped. 
She saw him square his shoulders and throw back his 
head in the old triumphant, exulting way. He laughed, 
an audacious, reckless laugh that made Memory stir in 
her. Just so had the boy in Gilly’s Wood laughed, 
standing there with back-thrown head and eager eyes. 

‘‘You will stay then?” 

“Yes,” said Guy Wyndham, “I will stay.” 

Now that the victory was gained Deirdre felt shaken 
and tired. She sat down again a little limply, winding 
the long string of amber she wore round her fingers. 
The beads slipped through her hands coolly, like 
smooth drops of sunlit water. She looked at the book 
lying on the parapet beside her. 

“What are you reading?” 

Guy pushed it towards her. 

“It’s for you—my copies came this morning-” 

On the dark blue cover she read in neat orange let¬ 
tering—“Search”—“Guy Wyndham.” 

A little touch of pride thrilled through her. This 
was his book—the first child of his brain. She picked 
it up with reverent hands. On the fly-leaf was written 
in a firm, characteristically careless hand:— 


“Lady Liscarney—^with the compliments of the 
Author. 


“Guy Wyndham.” 


Deirdre re-read it several times. Then she said 
quietly: 

“Why did you put that? It sounds so stifif-” 


242 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


He did not answer, so she said quite simply: 

“We are friends, aren’t we, Guy?” 

With great care and neatness she tore the fly-leaf 
out, tearing it up into small bits. Then she looked at 
him smiling. 

“I haven’t spoilt it a bit. “Now, have you got a 
fountain-pen? Well, take it and write”—she hesi¬ 
tated a second—“write ‘Deirdre—from Guy.’ ” 

Without a word he took the book and wrote across 
the page what she asked, putting it down in the sun¬ 
shine to dry. 

Deirdre picked it up, and read it aloud with almost 
childish pleasure- 

“ ‘Deirdre—from Guy-’ ” 

She held the book in her arms as one holds a child. 

“Thank you, Guy—thank you very, very much— 
I shall always keep it, and value it.” 

The sight of her sitting there with his book in her 
arms moved the boy to a sudden intense longing. To 
cloak it he said carelessly: 

“They are reviewing it well.” 

“Yes—I saw a very good review in The Times to¬ 
day. I shall go and find a nice quiet place and sit down 
and read it. It is so exciting to think that you wrote 
it, Guy!” 

She looked again at the slender bronze nymph, with 
her dancing feet and curving mouth. The sun was 
very hot—she felt it on her bare arms and uncovered 
head. 

“Where’s Olivia?” she asked, turning. 

“She deserted me to go and play ‘Ogres’ with Por- 




THE DIVINE COMEDY 


243 


zie! She's a sport, your little sister, Deirdre. Some¬ 
how she reminds me of a boy—there are not many girls 
who keep so well to the Rules of the Game. 

Deirdre looked at him quickly. 

“We all do," she said a little haughtily. “It was 
a rule in the Family to play fair. We don’t cheat." 

“Ah, but there’s something so sporting about Livvy. 
She’s as straight as a die, and she looks at you 
straight. A fine kid, Deirdre-’’ 

“A darling," she said, proudly. “In a way the best 
of us all. But we all have our bad streaks. Olivia’s 
is her temper. Howard is a darling, but abominably 
lazy—Roly has the sweetest temper of the lot of us, 
really—you would love Roly. I wish he could have 
come to us for his holidays. And my bad streak 
is-’’ 

“Yes?" he asked, smiling. 

“Love of Beauty! As I told Terry, it’s a curse when 
it’s abnormal like it is with me. To escape into the 
World to see all the beauty I wanted was the dream of 

my life-’’ She paused, and looked out over the 

sunny garden. 

Guy said very gently: 

“And it came true, did it not ?’’ 

“Yes," she said slowly. “It came true." 

On the silence fell the clang of the tall iron gate. 

Dahlia, in a jade-green frock that looked a mere 
brilliant wisp, short-sleeved, short-skirted, was cross¬ 
ing the court, arm-in-arm with Terence. Olivia was 
following rather breathlessly^ with her arms full of the 
blue-overalled, squirming, fat bundle that was Rupert 





244 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Terence Wycome. The Sealyham greeted them all 
with flattering excitement. 

“Halloa!^’ said Terence cheerfully. ^‘We’re going 
to have a foursome at tennis. Are you going to play 
you two? I feel in great form, so you’d better prepare 
to put up some really hot stuff, Jingle my lad!” 

Deirdre felt a rush of relief at the sound of his gay 
voice, and the sight of his tall, big figure in its white 
flannels and blazer. She had been so perilously close 
to giving away more than she meant to. She sprang 
up and took her husband’s arm. 

“We should love to—at least, I should. Wait a 
minute until I go up to the house and change my 
shoes.” 

She moved off with Terence, Wyndham and Dahlia 
followed in the rear. Olivia had put Master Porzie 
down, and was chasing that sturdy infant round the 
pool, followed with great excitement by Mr. Weller. 

“Weill” said Terence as they went up the steps, “did 
you ask him, Deirdre? What did he say?” 

“He’s going to stay all right—I knew he would. It 
only required a little tact!” 

Terence squeezed her hand. 

“Tact! You must have used a charm or some¬ 
thing! I tell you that fellow was as stubborn as an 
ox when I asked him, and you came along, and—he 
knuckled under!” 

“But I’m a witch, my dear! I say ‘Go!’ and he 
goeth, and ‘Come!’ and he cometh! A little knack, 
that’s all!” 

“Little knack or not. I’m jolly glad Jingle is stay- 


THE DIVINE COMEDY 


245 


Ing. He’s a fine chap, Deirdre—a splendid fellow. At 
Winchester and the ’Varsity he had a sort of little 
clique of his own—all the brilliant men of the year 
were in it. I always said he’d do something one day.” 

“And he’s done it! Look!” She held up Search 
—“He just gave it to me.” 

“By Gad, is that his book? I suppose I must read 
it—it looks awfully bulky. But I mean to say, I 
should drop the deuce of a brick if I pretended to read 
it, and said to him one day—‘I think your book’s rip- 
pin’,’ don’t you know, and ‘I’m so bucked that it ends 
happily,’ and all that, and it turned out to end as dis¬ 
mally as a funeral! Beastly awkward if that hap¬ 
pened-” 

Deirdre laughed. 

“Well, I’m going to read it first, so I can prime you 
as to the plot. Let’s go in and get our racquets. How 
shall we play? Shall you and I take on Dahlia and 
Guy?” 

“Rippin’ arrangement. Come on, old girl, we’ll 
whack ’em hollow.” 

They sallied forth to the field of battle. . . . 

That night, sitting at the window of her bedroom, 
Deirdre read Search. At her elbow a little rose-shaded 
reading lamp looked like a glowing flower. Deirdre 
was curled up in a big chair, wrapped in her heavy 
black-and-gold kimono. Her hair lay over her shoul¬ 
ders in two thick plaits. The window was open, and 
warm air, fragrant with garden scents, blew in. 
Underneath her window was a large bed of tall white 



246 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


lilies, gleaming like slim, pallid tapers through the 
mauve and silver gauze of the deepening dusk. Their 
perfume, heavy and sweet, drifted up to her—ever 
afterwards she associated the scent of lilies with 
Search. 

It was a clever, even a brilliant book—clever in a 
careless, slap-dash way, as if it had been written in a 
“Take it or leave it’’ frame of mind. The range it 
covered was a little staggering, from prehistoric 
times to the unexpected finale, staged in the twentieth 
century. Yet in its very audacity of conception and 
treatment it was brilliant. And in every word it was 
Guy speaking. 

Deirdre realized this as she read on and on. She 
would have recognized his style out of a thousand 
books. He had a genius for description—a certain 
flair for finding the right words, the exact simile. As 
a painter masses his colours to get the best effect, so 
he massed his words. Deirdre read on, gripping and 
breathless, too the very last chapter of all, where the 
Man finds his Woman at last, in a Wood—a beech 
wood, carpeted in blue-bells- This scene, exqui¬ 

sitely written, in the simplest language, yet vividly 
gripping extraordinarily tender, closed the book. 

Deirdre read the last words, then sat very still, star¬ 
ing at the printed page in her lap. She realized that 
Guy had written the whole book, but especially the last 
chapter, for her, to her. He had written it before he 
found her again. It was a message, an appeal, a ques¬ 
tion-- 

She turned to the title-page again—here was the 



THE DIVINE COMEDY 


247 

poem that formed the motif of the book—Constance 
Skinner’s beautiful “Song of the Search”- 

“I descend through the forest alone-” 

Deirdre read it through again mechanically- 

This was beautiful she thought subconsciously, 
wonderfully beautiful. And Guy had put it on the 
front page for her. 

“Oh Earth, Earth, great Earth, 

Mate of God, and Mother of Me, 

Say, where is she, the Bearer of Morning, 

My Bringer of Song? 

Love in me waits to be born— 

Where is She, the Woman?” 

Outside the sky was pearly with the pallor of the 
approaching dawn. One by one the stars paled and 
died. A bird began to sleepily stir in the garden—the 
heavy, cloying sweetness of the lilies drifted upon the 
little vagrant dawn wind. Deirdre sat on, in the big 
high-backed chair, her face between the heavy black 
ropes of hair, very pale, but strangely tranquil. She 
sat staring straight in front of her, with inscrutable 
eyes. 

“Love in me waits to be born— 

Where is She, the Woman?” 



CHAPTER IX 


^‘the splendour and the pain” 

Rupert Brooke 

I 

“Search” was a success. 

It sold remarkably well, and was reviewed brilliantly. 
Its name was on everyone’s tongue—it was discussed, 
praised, dissected, and advertised all over the country. 

Guy Wyndham took his astounding success with the 
utmost nonchalance. He even seemed a little bored by 
it. He refused all the invitations that came by every 
post, and stayed at Greyfriars writing the opening 
chapters of his new novel. 

Olivia celebrated Guy’s success by spraining her 
ankle. She was letting off a little high steam by jump¬ 
ing over a taut tennis net, when she misjudged the 
height, and caught her foot in the net, falling heavily 
with her ankle twisted under her. Hobbs, who had 
been a scandalized witness of the accident, was of the 
opinion that she had deserved to “break her neck.” 
Despite this gloomy prophecy, the crusty old man daily 
sent his choicest hot-house fruits and flowers to the 
invalid, whose tireless energy chafed at being tied to a 
sofa even for an hour. 

Thus Guy and Deirdre were together constantly, 

248 


" THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 249 

Terence was very busy at the time with the estate, 
Olivia was put out of action by her sprained ankle, 
so it naturally resulted that they sought each other’s 
company. 

In the weary weeks in which she was confined to 
her sofa, Olivia made a totally unexpected friend in 
the Dowager. When the others were out the Dowager 
would stump up to the house with her solitaire board, 
or fascinating ivory chess-men, or assortment of by¬ 
gone literature which Olivia accepted politely, but never 
read. They would sit together on the terrace, Olivia 
on her couch playing with the Sealyham, chewing 
sweets, or amusing herself with the solitaire board, 
while the Dowager sat beside her knitting furiously, 
and offering either legends of her youth, or barbed 
comments on the manner of the present generation. 
To the former Olivia listened eagerly—to the latter 
with pitying amusement. Of course, anyone who con¬ 
demned short skirts, and deplored cocktails and jazz, 
had, to put it mildly, “a top story to let, unfurnished.” 
But on the other hand, stories of the unbelievable time 
when girls wore crinolines, knew how to blush, and 
called their fathers “Sir,” were intriguing—nay, fas¬ 
cinating. 

Later on she said to Deirdre, after the Dowager had 
stumped homewards: 

“ ‘The Hyena’—(A sobriquet earned by Olivia’s 
summing up that ‘she was the sort of p-person who 
laughs very loudly, and then b-b-bites you in the calf 
when you t-turn your back!’) isn’t such a bad old crow 
when you know her p-p-properly.” 


250 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Of course she isn’t,” said Deirdre hastily, and try¬ 
ing without success to look reproving. 

“Although she has a tile loose somewhere,” con¬ 
tinued the disrespectful daughter of Eve pensively. 
“But what can you expect when she used to faint if 
a man squeezed her hand, and do heaps of c-crewel 
work, and cart round j-j-jelly and soup to watery-eyed 
old men, and m-moustached women in the parish? 
You know, sort of m-m-ministering-angel stunt. I 
expect she’d have killed off T-terry’s father, if his 
horse hadn’t kindly d-d-done it for her-” 

“Livvy dear, you mustn’t say these things!” said 
Deirdre, feeling a dreadful hypocrite. 

Olivia darted her a shrewd glance. 

“Well, if you take your Auntie L-Livvy’s advice, 
darling, you’ll keep an eye on the Hyena. You may 
not know it, but she hates you like s-smoke!” 

Deirdre, who knew this to be perfectly true, was 
silent. 

“She’s watching you,” said Olivia, “waiting to t-trip 
you up. And, my aunt, wouldn’t she enjoy doing it if 
she got the ch-ch-chance! So keep that in mind honey, 
and—watch your step!” 

There was something so warning in the last words 
that Deirdre glanced hastily round, but Olivia was 
lying back on her sofa, entirely absorbed in studying 
a full length photo of Miss Mary Pickford in the 
Tatler, 

That night they sat out on the terrace after dinner, 
and Deirdre sang for them, her voice floating out 
through the open French windows of the drawing- 



“ THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 251 


room on the still air. She sang *‘Pale hands I loved 
beside the Shalimar,” and “The Nightingales of Lin¬ 
coln’s Inn,” and then one of Newbolt’s short poems 
that Olivia had fitted in with a haunting little tune 
which had sung in her head for days. Both the words 
and the simple melody were charming. 

“Though I wander far-off ways, 

Dearest, never doubt thou me: 

Mine is not the love that strays, 

Though I wander far-off ways: 

Faithfully for all my days 
I have vowed myself to thee: 

Though I wander far-off ways. 

Dearest, never doubt thou me-” 

Outside on the terrace everything was still and 
scented. A languid crystal pale moon was riding high 
in the purple softness of the night sky. The mingled 
scents of lilac and lilies, the heavy sweetness of stocks, 
mingled with the twilight. 

Olivia was lying in a long chair, her dress and face 
gleaming wanly through the dusk. Wyndham was 
seated on the wide stone balustrade of the terrace 
looking out into the dim garden, the end of his ciga¬ 
rette glowing like a jewel. Terence, on the arm of 
Olivia’s chair, had Sam, the Sealyham, in his arms, 
and one of the fox terriers sitting on the flagstones 
at his feet. 

“Though I wander far-off ways. 

Dearest, never doubt thou me-” 


252 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


The soft clear voice died away into silence. Wynd- 
ham was glad. He never listened to it without a heart¬ 
ache, a poignant longing. 

Deirdre came out on to the terrace. She wore 
black that night—a long, glittering slender sheath of 
black, with beautiful, narrow black shoes, pointed, and 
strapped on the instep, with absurdly high, delicate 
little scarlet heels. 

Oddly enough the black, instead of making her look 
older, intensified her childish air. She looked like a 
lovely schoolgirl masquerading in a Paris gown. 

Olivia, however, thought otherwise. She was feel¬ 
ing bored, and cross, and she would have staked her 
soul to be sitting in the stalls at the Gaiety instead of 
lying on the terrace at Grey friars. 

“I wish you’d sing something cheerful,” she re¬ 
marked crossly. “That thing is as solemn as a 
f-funerall Soon you’ll be singing that awful thing in 
the N-National Song Book-” 

She sang in a shrill treble: 

“ ‘Oh mother, mother, make my b-bed, 

For I shall d-d-die to-morrow!’ ” 

Deirdre said, with imperturbable good humour : 

“Well, you wrote the setting of that rondel your¬ 
self.” 

“I wish I’d b-burnt it,” said the composer savagely. 
“It’s the gloomiest thing! And I wish you wouldn’t 
wear black! I hate you in it!” 

“Shall I run up and change it, darling?” enquired 
her sister sweetly, swinging a slender foot. 



“THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ”253 


“Don’t be a f-fool! Oh, Lord, how d-dull you all 
are! I’m boredT 

And the invalid turned her face to the cushions and 
groaned. 

“You’re tired too. Baby,” said Terence, rumpling 
the thick curls. “Shall I carry you up to bed?” 

“No, you won't, my lad I” exploded his sister-in-law 
with sudden energy. “Bed, indeed! Tell you what, 
though, you can carry me indoors, and s-sing me your 
one song, and strum on the p-p-piano. Anyway, it 
will be cheerful!” 

Terence, whose repertoire consisted of “Coal Black 
Mammy,” and “Helen,” obediently threw away his 
cigarette, arose, and lifted Olivia from her long chair. 

“Shan’t be long!” he said, grinning. “Must humour 
the che-ild, I suppose! Take Jingle to see the gardens 
by moonlight, Deirdre—they ought to look stunning. 
I’ll join you in a few ticks.” 

They watched the tall figure cross the terrace, pass 
through the French windows, from the gloom into the 
light. The rosy lamplight glinted on his fair head for 
a minute, then he was gone. Then they turned and 
looked at each other. 

Deirdre slid to her feet with a little, half-nervous 
laugh. 

“Are you coming?” she asked, looking over her 
shoulder. 

He followed her down the wide, shallow steps. 
They walked down a long turf path, bordered with 
beds of flowers. The tall lilies looked wan and ghostly 
through the dusk, tangles of Mrs. Sinkin’s pink and 


254 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


ox-eyed daisies seemed like fragrant patches of moon¬ 
light, clumps of iris and blowsy pink peonies lost 
their colour, and became mere shadowy wraiths of 
blossom. The moon had veiled her polished shoulder 
in amethyst mists—now and again her fair pallor 
shone out, broken by the grey and silver gauze of scud¬ 
ding clouds. 

They turned down a long, narrow alley of clipped 
yew. The tall, thick ramparts of dark foliage blocked 
all but a strip of mauve sky, gemmed with the pale 
eyes of stars, like the markings of some wonderful 
peacock’s tail. Underneath their feet was close-cropped 
turf, spangled with daisies, tiny paillettes sewn on a 
velvet robe. The dew-wet grass deadened all foot¬ 
falls—there was something a little unearthly in walk¬ 
ing like this through the warm darkness, noiselessly 
speaking no word. Deirdre felt the need of speech 
—something trite and commonplace to ward away the 
intoxicating glamour of the night. 

‘‘Shall we go and see the Walled Garden?” she 
asked lightly. “I love it by moonlight.” 

“I’ll take your word for it!” said Wyndham 
laughing. 

He, too, had felt the spell closing in on him, and 
was glad of words and laughter. 

They went down some more steps, through an arch¬ 
way in the wall, and into the kitchen garden. A white 
moth fluttered out of the hedge, and brushed against 
Deirdre’s face. Bats, uttering their thin, squeaky cry, 
swooped low—Mr. Weller, who had padded silently in 
the Beloved’s wake, made a vicious snap at them. 


“ THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 255 


Deirdre could smell the wallflowers in the borders, and 
the faint fragrance of the currant leaves. 

They had come to the little green door in the wall, 
—Guy held it open and she passed down the steps 
into the Walled Garden. The flagstones lay all dappled 
with the fleeting mosaic of moonlight. In its corner 
the little thatched summer-house was humped up like 
a twisted, malignant dwarf. Beyond the high walls 
the mist of the orchard looked fairy-like, elusive. The 
pale light made the rose-flushed foam of the apple 
blossom into a snowy cataract of sweetness, brushed 
with lilac shadows. The whole place had taken on a 
disturbing witchery, an intangible glamour, that in 
its robes of sunlight it discarded. 

Deirdre walked slowly over to the sun-dial and 
stood with one hand on the cold stone, her head 
slightly bent. She had the silvery Spanish shawl 
lightly over her shoulders—the moonlight had robbed 
it of its vivid lacquer greens and burnt oranges and 
mandarin blues. She was a study in black and white 
as she stood there—the glistening black of her dress, 
the pearly white of her arms and neck. Her face, too, 
looked jasmine pale between its heavy waves of black 
hair—even the clear green of her eyes had deepened 
—they seemed dark and wide and full of witchery. 

The boy crossed over to her, and stood looking 
down at the hand on the sun-dial. It was a beautiful 
hand—narrow, with long, slender, pink-tipped fingers. 
It seemed to him that as long as he fixed his mind on 
something, his control would not snap. Intently he 
stared at that white hand. Deirdre searched wildly 


256 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


for some topic of conversation. She felt that if they 
did not do something—talk of commonplace things, 
laugh, and joke—that the glamour of the night would 
crash down their defences, break over their heads like 
a vast, breathless wave, and bring them face to face 
with the inevitable end. It would carry them along 
on its crest and then—all would be over. Desperately 
she rallied her forces to meet its assault. 

“How are you getting along with your book?” she 
asked, turning to him. 

“Quite well, thanks,” he said politely and tritely. 
“I hope to get it finished very soon.” 

“I am longing to read it, Guy! Do you know that 
I always was perfectly sure that you were going to 
make good ?” 

“That was very charming of you,” said the boy, 
feeling as if he was acting a part on the stage.' 

It all was so unreal—the dim garden, the girl in 
her black gown, their nearness. 

“‘There was a horse in the King’s stables and its 
name was Genius.’ ” quoted Deirdre smilingly. 
“You’ve mastered that horse, Guy, that so many aspire 
to ride! I only wish that I could join you!” 

He said abruptly: 

“You have a finer horse than mine to ride. Your 
horse’s name is—Beauty-” 

Deirdre made a little wincing gesture. 

“Ah, don’t say that! Beauty has been the curse 
of my life! The desire for it, the craving for it! If 
it hadn’t been for Beauty I should have v/aited for 




“ THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 257 


She stopped short, her fingers twisting together in a 
pathetic way. The scents of the garden filled the 
warm air—thyme and rosemary, stocks and lilies. 
Strong above it all, the poignant perfume of dew-wet 
lilac. She turned away and walked restlessly over 
the court. An overhanging bush of lilac swept her 
head, showering dew and tiny mauve trumpet-like 
corollas on her hair. She reached up and caught 
down a great cluster of blossoms, holding the sweet 
coolness of it against her flushed cheeks. The over¬ 
powering fragrance went to her head like a mellow, 
rare old wine. She closed her eyes, feeling a half- 
sensuous intoxication, a throbbing desire. A little 
phrase, heard or read somewhere, slipped into her 

head—“the delirious dusk-” The moon had 

slipped behind the clouds—the Walled Garden was 
full of dim shadows. The scent of lilac—alluring, 
sweetly heavy—and the delirious dusk. . . . 

The delirious dusk. . . . 

Deirdre knew that Guy was watching her. She 
knew that she had only to turn, and hold out her arms, 
and that the battle would be over. She did not want 
to fight any longer—courage was dead in her—all her 
gallant pretence gone- 

The delirious dusk. . . . 

Very slowly Deirdre turned. Across the court they 
looked at each other. Deirdre’s heart was beating very 
fast—her throat felt dry and choking. She heard the 
clock in the west turret strike the half-hour—one 
cracked thin note that fell on the silence like a tan¬ 
gible blow. The moon slipped out from the clouds. 




258 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


soaring high in the pale sky, aloof, remote, coldly 
beautiful. Its light showed them the longing, the 
restrained passion in each other’s faces. There was a 
tense, strained silence for a minute, then Guy crossed 
the court to her side. He did not touch her—only 
stood looking, looking, as if to read something in her 
face. Then he said softly: 

“Deirdre-” 

The overpowering sweetness of that lilac—and the 
delirious dusk—it was like a subtle fire in her veins. 
She forgot everyone else in the world. For her there 
was no world, except the charmed circle in which they 
stood together. The scent of the lilac seemed to make 
her a little faint—sweetly languid. The nearness of 
him—warm and throbbing with glorious, leaping 
life! . . . 

The delirious dusk. ... 

And the spell was broken, shattered like a Venetian 
glass goblet beneath the stroke of a hammer. 

A gay, tuneless voice upraised quite close at hand, 
in discordant praises to the pale stars— 

'‘For I’m goin’, for I’m goin’. 

With a love that’s ever growin’ 

To that Coal Black Mammee-of-mine! 

Not a cent, not—a—c-” 

“Bruce, you scamp, come off that bed of seedlings 1 ” 

Terence, . . . 

Quite suddenly the languid sweetness that had 
clouded her brain cleared, and Deirdre felt cool-headed, 




“THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ’’ 259^ 


and perfectly sane. It was as if a gust of wind from 
the moors had blown away the scent of the lilacs from 
her senses. She remembered sharply and clearly a 
hundred silly, trivial little things. They flitted through 
her memory like cinematograph pictures across a screen 

- Terry’s laugh, boyish and awkward . . . the 

way he said “Oh rot!” and coloured up all over his 
face . . . the glint of his fair hair in the sunlight. 

. . . Terry diving into the lake, and waving a glis¬ 
tening arm. . . . Terry looking down at her with love 
in his frank eyes . . . the admiring affection and pride 
with which he talked of “Jingle”- 

Jingle, his friend ... 

Terry. . . . 

A memory of her own words came to her—“It was 
a rule in the Family to play fair,—we don’t cheat I” 

Her pride stung her like a lash—pride, and a great 
shame. Shame looked at her out of Guy’s eyes—he, 
too, had forgotten all in the wild delirium of the 
moment. 

Deirdre moved away, bracing every muscle and 
nerve and fibre of her being to greet Terence with a 
smile. She did not look back at the tall, slender figure 
by the lilacs, for if she had done, all her control would 
have broken down. She felt weakened, physically and 
mentally, exhausted, spent, as a swimmer who, battling 
among the waves, is dashed on to the shore. That 
was how she felt, as if many waters had passed over 
her head- 

The door in the wall swung open with a crash, and 
Terence appeared, followed by the setter. 





26 o 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Halloa!” he called cheerfully. “I thought Fd 
find you here! After two renderings of my famous 
‘turn/ Livvy finally consented to being carried up to 
bed, and I sent Parker in to undress her, Deirdre 
I believe she was dead tired. Well, Jingle, my lad, 
what d’you think of the Walled Garden by moon¬ 
light?” 

There was a little pause, and then Guy said casually: 

“I think it’s ripping-” 

“It’s a gorgeous night, by Gad! Shall we take a 
turn round by the maze, Deirdre ? Hobbs informed me 
that all the yew was clipped yesterday, and that the 
new borders looked top-hole-” 

Deirdre made a gallant effort—^her voice was per¬ 
fectly steady and natural. 

“You two go—like Olivia, I’m fagged to death! 
It must be all the tennis we played this morning. I’ll 
go to bed, I think. Good night, Guy. Good night, 
Terry dear-” 

The hand she gave to Guy was hot and fevered, but 
it struck Terry’s usually unobservant soul that the lips 
he kissed were icy cold. 

Then she was gone, the Sealyham’s warm, furry 
little body pressed tightly in her arms. 

All the way up to the house her face was working 
pitifully like that of a child who was trying not to cry. 
But as she entered the drawing-room it changed, as if 
a mask had been slipped over it. The servants were 
about—^there were Parker’s sharp eyes to face. 
Serenely, but with feet that dragged a little in their 
high-heeled shoes, she went upstairs, and down the 




“THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 261 


long gallery. It was dimly lit, and the gilt frames of 
the portraits gleamed dully. Painted eyes stared down 
at her, painted lips smirked or pouted as she hurried 
past. Click, clack, went her little red heels on the 
polished floor. The light glistened on the dull lustre 
of the old oak and the suits of armour that stood 
here and there. Over the mantelpiece on the wide 
hearth, hung the portrait of Dermot, 9th Earl of Lis- 
carney, smiling down at her with Terry’s lips, watching 
her with Terry’s blue eyes. It seemed to her over¬ 
wrought nerves that the eyes were stern and accusing, 
the mouth sneering. She hurried past, her Spanish 
shawl trailing on the floor like the petals of a draggled 
flower. 

Her bedroom was quiet and soothing, waiting like a 
kind, beautiful friend. The rose-pink curtains were 
drawn, the tall lamp looked like a rosy, glowing blos¬ 
som of light. From the big dressing-table came the 
soft intimate glisten of tortoise-shell and gold. A 
black crepe de Chine nightdress was laid out on the 
bed, with its pile of snowy pillows and rose satin 
canopy. The room smelt pleasantly and faintly of 
Morny’s Mysterieuse bath salts. Parker, a black, dis¬ 
creet shadow, was moving deftly and silently in the 
background. 

Deirdre put Sam down on a low couch, and herself 
sat down with a delicious sense of physical and mental 
relaxation. Parker, casting a glance of disapproval 
at the Sealyham, and one of love at her mistress, knelt 
down and began drawing off the satin shoes and fine, 
lace-insertioned stockings. 


262 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Afterwards, when she was lying in bed among the 
frilly pillows, and Parker picked up the Sealyham and 
prepared to depart, she cried sharply: 

“Oh, Parker, leave Sammy with me for to-night! 
He’ll be very good.” 

The handmaiden pursued her thin lips. 

“ ’E’s sure to ’ave fleas, your ladyship,” she pro¬ 
phesied darkly. 

“He hasn’t got one!” declared Deirdre indignantly. 
“Besides, he had a tub this afternoon, so his little 
paddy paws are lovely and clean—aren’t they, precious ? 
Oh, do, Parker!” 

When her mistress smiled at her, Parker was as 
warm wax in her hands. Putting the ecstatic Sealy¬ 
ham down on the bed, with a last gloomy warning 
she switched off the lights and went out. 

Deirdre put out an arm and cuddled the little warm 
body. 

“Now you’ll be a good boy and go to sleep, won’t 
you, Samiwell darling! There—here’s a lovely little 
hollow for you to curl up in. Good night, little man.” 

The Sealyham, staggered but overjoyed by this 
largesse of the gods licked her hand with his rough 
pink tongue, and then curled up on the coverlet, set¬ 
tling down with a grunt of rapture. This was better 
than a basket any day, he reflected drowsily—usually 
the bed was a forbidden Paradise, except in the morn¬ 
ings, when Parker lifted him up on to it with the Be¬ 
loved’s tea and letters. 

Deirdre lay, her cheek pillowed on her hand like a 
child, for a long time, staring into the darkness. The 


"THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 263 

big windows were thrown wide open, and the moon¬ 
light came flooding through, lying in a cold pool of 
pearly light on the polished floor. It seemed to her a 
very long time before she heard Terry’s step outside 
and he came in, trying to walk very softly. He did 
not switch on the light, but she could see his tall figure 
in the twilight, and the glint of his fair hair. Deirdre 
shut her eyes—she shrank from talking that night. 
Through her lashes she saw him tip-toe across the 
room, and repress the little white dog’s welcome with 
a warning whisper. He bent over her, listening to her 
quiet breathing, and very gently drew the clothes up 
over a bare, outflung arm, like a mother with her child. 
Deirdre felt something hot and stinging well up under 
her lashes, blinding her vision. Then he tip-toed very 
quietly away into his own room, walking with the light¬ 
ness peculiar to big men. . . . 

Deirdre Liscamey turned her face to her pillows— 
her mouth was all twisted, and quivering like a hurt 
child’s. 


II 

For the next few days Olivia’s sharp eyes noticed 
that her sister and Guy seemed purposely to avoid each 
other. Deirdre was with Terence a lot, and she would 
look at him rather pathetically sometimes, as if trying 
to draw courage from the sight of him. 

Then came a May afternoon, all blue and white and 
gold, with a little wind ruffling the fleecy clouds, and 
making the trees curtsey low, as if they were court 


264 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


ladies, powdered and crinolined, sinking into a grace¬ 
ful reverence, with a prodigious rustle of silks and 
laces, at the approach of King Summer. 

Olivia, lying on her sofa in a corner of the terrace, 
was languidly looking over a pile of journals and giv¬ 
ing racy comments on life in general. The Dowager 
was knitting a hideous jumper, looking very square 
and large in her wicker chair. Through her pale lashes 
she watched Deirdre, who was perched on the stone 
balustrade, idly swinging a narrow, whiteshod foot, 
and watching Hobbs mowing the lawn below. The 
droning whir of the machine seemed to blend in pleas¬ 
antly with the golden drowsiness of the afternoon. 

Guy Wyndham, tennis racquet in hand, was drum¬ 
ming on the strings with one brown hand, moodily 
staring out into the garden. The Dowager looked at 
him with dislike. She was annoyed with him for 
being so tall and slender and well-knit in his white 
flannels and college blazer, for having a good profile 
and dark eyes that looked at her mockingly. Vaguely 
she disliked and mistrusted him—warily she looked 
from him to Deirdre through her pale lashes, while 
seemingly busy with her knitting. 

Olivia flung down the Sketchy and yawned widely. 
‘‘Where is our estimable Terence ?” she asked. 

Deirdre said, tracing a pattern on the cold stone with 
the tip of a slim finger: 

“Gone to a meeting at the Town Hall, poor dear— 
something feeble about agriculture, I think. It seems 
a shame on a glorious afternoon like this.’’ 

The Dowager finished a row, and spread the jumper 


“ THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 265 

out on her knee, smoothing the wool down with short, 
stumpy fingers. 

“The dear boy is very enthusiastic,” she said primly, 
“He really takes a pride in the estate, and the tenants’ 
comfort.” 

Olivia shot an impish glance at her, and rumpled 
her dark curls till they stood on end. 

“Still, the Town Hall is a mouldy hole to spend a 
topping afternoon in. It’s like the family vault with 
electric light 1-1-laid on, and a p-policeman who glares 
at you when you go in-” 

She picked up the Sketch again, and looked criti¬ 
cally at a photo of Ivor Novello, tracing out his profile 
with a sugared almond. After putting the sweet into 
her mouth and cracking it with her small, sharp teeth, 
she thoughtfully studied the back of Guy’s dark head. 

“What are you two going to do?” she enquired. 
“P-play tennis?” 

Guy turned round and smiled at her. 

“We’ve had one sett already-” 

The Dowager looked at him sourly. Olivia inter¬ 
cepted the glance, and thought shrewdly: 

“The Hyena has got her claws into p-p-poor old 
Jingle! I wonder why?” Aloud she said, crunching 
the sugared almond like a squirrel: 

“Why not go for a ride?” 

This time the excuse came glibly from Deirdre: 

“Too much fag changing. Baby-” 

Olivia saw the Dowager flicker a pale, lightning 
glance at her daughter-in-law. 

“Darn the old fool!” she said inwardly. “She’s 





266 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


always watching Deirdre—watching her to catch her 
out!” She fished for another almond, licked its 
smooth coating of pink sugar with a pensive tongue, 
and then said hopefully: “Why don’t you take Jingle 
to have a l-look at the lake, Deirdre? It ought to be 
ripping there t-t-to*day-” 

Deirdre hesitated. She could think of no decent ex¬ 
cuse, and to refuse would look strange. She felt the 
Dowager’s eyes on her, and there was a challenge in 
their cold depths. Hastily, proudly, she snatched it up. 

“All right—would you like to come, Guy? We can 

go in the canoe if you like- Good-bye, Mater— 

cheer-oh, Liv!” 

Two pairs of eyes watched them go down the steps 
and over the lawn—Guy, tall and very Italian looking 
in his flannels, Deirdre, walking with her peculiar 
swaying grace, the skirt of her pale green dress swing¬ 
ing above her ankles. 

Then the Dowager said thoughtfully, her needles 
clicking at a terrific rate: 

“They are great friends, are they not?” 

Olivia looked at her through narrowed eyes, smiling 
a little. 

“Yes,” she said curtly. 

There was a little silence, then: 

“They met years ago, didn’t they?” asked the 
Dowager casually. 

“Yes.” said Olivia again, picking up Nash’s 
Magazine, 

The Dowager pursued her point with the stolid 
heaviness of a tank going into action. 




“ THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 267 


^‘At your home?” 

Olivia, who knew nothing about their meeting, and 
had never asked, thought rapidly: 

“Darn the woman! If I say I don’t know she’ll 
begin to suspect something fishy!” 

She flicked the leaves of her magazine, and said 
lightly: 

“At a d-dance, I believe. Why?” 

With the war in her own country, the Dowager 
hastily ceased fire, but only for a minute. 

“He is a very handsome young man,” she said 
acidly. 

Olivia agreed sweetly, 

“Very, isn’t he? He reminds me of that statue of 
the Winged M-m-mercury, somehow. Doesn’t he 
you ?” 

The Dowager, who thought that all statues of gods 
and goddesses were slightly unpleasant and vaguely 
immoral, nodded her head. There was something 
satisfying in finding an immoral streak in Guy Wynd- 
ham. 

Ill 

As they walked silently over the springy turf of the 
park, Deirdre thought of Terence. She thought of 
him desperately, intently, as a knight going into battle 
thinks of his lady. She thought of the way he smiled, 
of his dearness to her, his gay voice. 

It must not be thought that Terence was a paragon 
of all virtues. In over two years of married life 
Deirdre had plumbed all his weaknesses, and loved 


268 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


him the better for them. In character he was a little 
weak, following where others led, going through life 
with a charming, easy-going creed of Hail-fellow-well 
met. Physically he was splendid—mentally he lacked 
—what was it that he lacked? Some clear-headed 
strength of vision—strength of will? Deirdre could 
not decide. He was perfectly incapable of jealousy— 
proud of the admiration her beauty excited, proud of 
the way people turned to look after her in the street, 
stared in restaurants and theatres. She knew that after 
his marriage there had never been another woman in 
the world for him—he had no eyes for anyone else. 
Her beauty had dulled his senses, swamped him like a 
flood. This faithfulness vaguely irritated her—it was 
so absurdly dog-like—yet she knew that there was no 
cause for irritation. He possessed an unshakable nerve 
and an iron courage, but yet he shrank from the 
supernatural. Deirdre knew of his weakness, and mar¬ 
velled that so splendid an animal as Terence could 
know the clammy touch of dread. Deirdre could 
banish it with the touch of her lips, the clasp of her 
arms. It made him strangely dear to her—awakened 
all the tenderness of her nature. To balance his faults 
came his virtues. He was straight as a die, wonder¬ 
fully gentle to all things weaker than himself, clean all 
through, and—best of all—he loved her. - 

So Deirdre thought of him as she walked in the 
green shade of the chestnuts, thought only of his great 
love for her, of his splendid, unshakable faith. They 
spoke no word until they came to the large lake at the 
west end of the park. 


“ THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 269 

The water lay still and dreaming, seeming hardly 
to move. The sunshine had gilded its smooth ripples 
into glittering scales of gold. The thick beech trees 
that fringed the banks were reflected in the burnished 
water, throwing long fingers of shadow across its 
radiance. Deirdre, shaking off her embarrassed 
silence, said, as they walked through the wood to the 
boat house: 

“Shall we take the little canoe and go over to the 
island?” 

Wyndham nodded, smiling. He, too, seemed to be 
constrained and awkward. 

The little canoe was tied up to the landing-stage, 
dancing up and down on the ripples. 

Guy took off his blazer and threw it in, helped 
Deirdre in, and followed her, untying the painter. He 
picked up a paddle, and the little canoe shot forward, 
the ripples making a gurgling chuckle under its prow. 

Deirdre lay back, drifting the ends of her fingers in 
the clear water, and letting the drops fall like crystal 
beads from her rosy finger tips. The lilies were out 
—great waxen cups of sunlight, stained and streaked 
with rose, or the smaller yellow ones, long stalked and 
scented, lying like rich, encrusted jewels among their 
shiny green leaves. Two swans sailed languidly to¬ 
wards them, arching their graceful necks. One reared 
up, flapping its wings, and uttering its harsh, unlovely 
cry—a little family of moorhens scurried over the 
water, and disappeared among the rushes. Deirdre 
put out a finger and touched a water-lily as they 
drifted along. Looking up and meeting the smiling 


270 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


glance of Guy’s dark eyes, she smiled back, a blessed 
sense of relief stealing over her. 

A dragonfly, a shimmering flame-blue thing, 
skimmed its gauzy wings perilously over the water. 
Deirdre reached up and took off her hat, crushing it 
down beside her. She ruffled up her black hair, 
smiling. 

“Hats annoy my sense of the fitness of things! In 
the Park and Bond Street they’re all very well, but in 
the country they’re annoying! Besides, we weren’t 
meant to wear hats, were we? Did Eve wear a hat, 
d’you think?” 

“I’m sure she did—probably an airy trifle of a fig 
leaf and a daisy chain, which made Adam swear, when 
he saw the bill!” 

“Oh well, I hate them anyway! It’s Terence’s mis¬ 
sion in life to run after me with one, giving warnings 
of sunstroke and headaches and freckles!” 

A little too deliberate, that bringing of Terence into 
the conversation. There was silence for a moment, 
broken only by the lazy murmuring of the water under 
the nose of the canoe. 

“Shall we put in to the island?” 

“I don’t know—yes—no-” Somehow the pretty 

island with its thick plantation of trees and thatched 
tea-house, seemed baleful and gloomy. Deirdre felt, 
looking at it, that same sense of heaviness, of danger, 
which had weighed her down that night at the Opera. 
She said quickly: “Not yet, if you don’t mind. Shall 
we have one turn more?” 

They drifted on, the little canoe dancing over the 



‘^THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 271 


water as lightly as a blown leaf. The high banks round 
the lake were thickly wooded with beech. Here and 
there against the thick mossy trunks shone out the 
silvery slimness of a drooping birch tree, solitary and 
exquisite as a line of Shelley in a drama, or a few bars 
of Debussy in one of Beethoven’s Sonatas. Quite near 
them, a fish leapt, leaving widening circles after it. A 
wood-pigeon from among the trees started to coo, a 
soft, sobbing, husky sound that fitted in with the 
drowsiness of the atmosphere. 

They went once more round the lake, loitering in 
the shadows, cleaving the burnished water like a swift 
arrow. Deirdre sat looking all round her, now and 
then shooting a swift glance at Guy from beneath her 
long lashes. 

The little breeze had ruffled his hair with mis¬ 
chievous fingers. The heavy silk shirt was open at the 
throat, and against its whiteness his skin looked very 
brown. She took an absurd pleasure in looking at him 
—a thrilling, half guilty pleasure ... He was so—^ 
not handsome, or good-looking—^but beautifid. That 
was the only word to use—beautiful, and he was the 
only man she had ever seen who could qualify for this 
description without being effeminate. There was no 
trace of effeminacy in his clean, perfectly balanced 
grace, in his thin, oddly young face, and long, nervy 
hands. The Greeks with their adoration of beauty, 
would have worshipped him. And, happily for him¬ 
self and others, he was superbly unaware of his good 
looks, a phenomenon which had caused his mother 
much thankful rejoicing. 


272 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Now,” said Guy, “the island?” 

Deirdre nodded, smiling. With a few swift strokes 
of the paddle the light little craft shot out from the 
overhanging bank, across the smooth water in which 
the blue of the sky was drowned, to the little landing- 
stage of the island. 

Guy helped her out, tied up the painter to a ring, 
and together they strolled up the path to the tea¬ 
house. Pine trees were mingled with the beech, 
and the ground was covered with their silky dark 
needles. They formed a thick slippery carpet which 
deadened their footsteps, as if they were walking on 
velvet. 

The little thatched tea-house was in a small clearing 
—a quaint place built in a sketchy imitation of the 
Japanese style. Inside was a round green table and 
a few wicker chairs. The place smelt damply of mil¬ 
dew and decay. Deirdre shivered a little, coming into 
the musty shadow of the sunshine. 

“It’s damp, isn’t it?” she said. “Let’s get out of it 
—I hate this place.” 

Once out into the warm air, she heaved a sigh of 
relief. 

Guy said half teasingly, half gently: 

“Why, you baby, I believe you’re afraid!'* 

She looked up at him quite gravely. 

“Do you know I ant —of that place! Don’t you 
sometimes take violent dislikes to places? For me that 
little tea-house is—is unfriendly—evil—oh, I can’t ex¬ 
plain! But I feel that it’s unclean, like—^like a leper. 
It makes me afraid!" 


“THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 273 


He did not laugh any more, but very gently took her 
hand in his warm one. 

“You’re not afraid now, are you?” 

She smiled at him, like a child whose fright has 
passed. 

“Not now—in the sunshine! Shall we walk round 
the island? Don’t the pines smell nice—all warm and 
clean?” 

They started to walk round the tea-house, following 
the little path. Quite naturally and unconsciously 
Deirdre had left her hand in his, so they walked with 
their hands swinging, like two children. It was only 
when they reached the clearing in the centre of the 
island that Deirdre remembered, and slipped her 
fingers out of his, the colour running up under her 
skin in a warm flood. 

To cloak her confusion, she sat down on a mossy 
stump, crossing her legs in a school-boyish way. He 
remained standing leaning against the trunk of a pine 
tree, hands in his pockets. Deirdre stirred the sun- 
warmed pine needles with the tip of a narrow, suede- 
shod foot, seemingly very intent on her task. 

“It’s like a tent here, isn’t it?” she asked. “A tent 
with green walls and a blue ceiling-” 

“Or a fairy ring—a charmed circle-” 

“I think it is a fairy ring—look at the orchestra 
stalls they’ve left behind!” She pointed to a group of 
scarlet and amber freckled toadstools at the foot of a 
beech tree. “They come and act ‘Midsummer Night’s 
Dream’ here, and that’s where Titania and Oberon 
and the Court Ladies sit, but when the cock crew they 



274 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


had to fly in such a hurry that the fairy scene-shifters 
forgot to pack up the toadstools!” 

They laughed at each other, and Guy said gaily: 

“Of course, why you know so much about it is be¬ 
cause you’re a fairy yourself-” 

“Yes—my birthday’s on Midsummer’s Eve.” 

“Proof positive! You see, you haven’t forgotten 
absolutely everything about Fairyland—they let you 
remember just a little bit so that you could think of 
it when you got depressed. For instance, I daresay 
you can remember the exact words of Titania and 
Oberon’s historic tiff, and what Titania wore at her 
at homes on Thursday nights, and how much fairy 
gold the Chief Fanner got a year for fanning the moon 
on ball nights, so that she gave her best light and didn’t 
feel faint.” 

“Ah!” said Deirdre mysteriously, “those are all 
secrets, and I don’t think I ought to tell you. I might 
some day, though.” Her mind went off at a new 
tangent. “My birthday—^that reminds me! I shall be 
twenty-one!” Her expression of mingled surprise, 
horror and amusement was very funny. 

“We’re getting on in life, aren’t we?” 

“Yes, we’re getting on. Twenty sort of creeps in 
without any fuss, but twenty-one seems to give you a 
jolt. It’s so definitely leaving the ’teens behind! It 
doesn’t seem three years ago that we met in the wood, 
does it?” 

“Three years ago-” 

There was a small tense silence, then Deirdre said 
slowly: 




“ THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 275 


“Yet it seems very long ago, after all I sometimes 
wonder if we didn’t dream it, Guy. When I think of 
it, it seems unsubstantial—dream-like. Perhaps that’s 
why it didn’t last. Dreams are unsatisfactory things 
at best—^they—they break so dreadfully quickly.” 

^^Don^tr said Guy in a strange, breathless voice. 
All the laughter had faded from his eyes—very sud¬ 
denly he looked tired and old. Again silence—a little 
shivering silence. Then Guy turned, and looked at 
her, still silently. He tried to say something, and failed 
miserably—his mouth was twitching. Then came the 
inevitable, which Deirdre had dreaded so much. 

All at once it seemed as if the last band of his 
control snapped, and he was down on his knees beside 
her, his dark head in her lap, his shoulders heaving 
with terrible rending sobs. 

Deirdre sat looking down at him. She felt no pas¬ 
sion now, no delirious emotion. Every feeling in her 
was swamped in a vast tenderness. With a gentle 
hand she stroked the dark hair, noticing in an odd sub¬ 
conscious way how it grew into a peak on his neck, 
like a little boy’s—Guy as a little boy—suddenly she 
knew how he had looked. Sturdy and solemn-eyed, 
with a slow, grave smile, and an adorable cheek that 
asked for kisses. She saw him running over a sunny 
lawn, falling down, and picking himself up with 
stately dignity. She saw him at prep, school, with 
ruffled hair and grubby hands—^bird-nesting in the 
holidays. She saw him as a tall, long-legged boy at 
public school, walking along with hands in pocket and 
straw hat tilted back from his gay face. She saw him 


276 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


winning the half mile, sprawling into the tape all long 
arms and legs- 

Then she looked down at the kneeling figure beside 
her, still shaking noiselessly. Her own eyes were dry 
and hot, but her mouth was all broken up with 
quivering. 

Presently he lifted his face—that smooth boyish 
face, twisted and terribly old. Her hand dropped from 
his head to his shoulder, then she laid it gently against 
the brown cheek. He seized and held it, pressing his 
mouth against the soft, childish palm. 

Absurdly she said, her voice a little unsteady: 

“What a darling little boy you must have been, 
Guy-” 

She laughed a little at her own absurdity. 

Guy, not deceived by the laugh, looked up and saw 
the broken-up quivering of her gallant smile. 

“Ah, don’t!’’ he said. “Don’t!” 

He laid his head on her knees again and put his 
arms round her protectively. 

They stayed a little while silently like this—like two 
children in the dark striving to gain courage from the 
warm feel of each other. After a time he lifted his 
head and looked up into her face. 

“Deirdre—darling—we’ve got to face it at last. 
We’ve been trying to stick it out—^to keep up the farce 
—but now we’re up against it.” 

“Yes, we’re up against it,” said Deirdre slowly. 
She bit hard on to her lower lip to cease its absurd 
trembling. 

Guy thought that she was the most gallant, and at 




“ THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 277 

the same time the most pathetic thing he had ever 
seen. 

She looked down into the dark eyes and said simply 
and somehow beautifully: 

“And I loved you !’* 

He caught hold of her passive hands. 

“I loved you too, my dear—from the moment I 
saw you, I think. Unconsciously all the time at the 
’Varsity I loved you—and afterwards in Venice—and 
now-” 

The bitterness of life struck her, and took away a 
little of her glorious youth. She clung to Guy’s 
hands tightly, as if through him she drew her courage. 
She said one word, steadily and softly: 

“Terence-” 

He drew in his breath sharply, as though someone 
had struck him across the face. 

“Do you think I have forgotten him?” His voice 
sounded rough and harsh. “And I love him—^that’s 
the damnable part of the whole thing. Terence has 
always been a sort of hero to me, from the days when 
I used to fag for him at school. That he—of all men 
in the world—should have married you- 

He drew up her hands and held them to his eyes; 
his mouth beneath them was all twisted. She knew 
that the roughness was a shield to hide a great hurt, 
a terrible grief and poignant longing. Again tender¬ 
ness surged up in her, and uncontrollable love. 

“I’m sorry-” she said unsteadily. “I’m sorry, 

Guy-” 

The boy took her hands away from his eyes,—they 







278 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


were very bright but steady. He reached up and laid 
a gentle finger on her throat. It was warmly smooth 
to his touch, and a little pulse was beating beneath it, 
fluttering like a caged thing. He realized the exact 
extent of her courage, and was ashamed of his own 
weakness. 

“Don’t be sorry, littlest,” he said gently. “It’s just 
the—wretched way of things-” 

They were silent again for a little space. Guy was 
remembering an incident of his public-school days. 

There had been a prize offered for the best essay 
on Modern Poetry. He had gone in for it. He re¬ 
membered the zeal with which he had written his 
paper, the hours he had spent looking up quotations 
in the school library, the nights he had lain awake 
thinking out epigrams and apt metaphors. He did 
not want the prize in the least, but he wanted to see 
his name on the notice board—“Melville-Rowden Prize 
Essay—G. M. Wyndham-” 

The essay had been finished, and sent in confidently. 
When the result was given out it was another name on 
the notice board—not his. He had failed. He re¬ 
membered what pains he had taken to hide his tre¬ 
mendous disappointment. If he was hurt, others 
should not see it. His friends received the impression 
that he didn’t care a hang—had only dashed off a few 
pages of rot, don’t you know, and sent it in for a 
lark, and, by Jove that he was awfully braced that 
Lindsay had got it. A good man, Lindsay. . . . The 
memory made Guy smile a little, then mentally square 
his shoulders. If he still had that grit, that stubborn 




“ THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 279 

attitude of rm-not-hurt-a-bit,-damn-you, then let him 
show it! 

He got to his feet and she rose too. They stood 
looking at each other, very close together, piteously 
young, piteously brave. 

“Darling, it’s like this,” said the boy very gently. 
“For Terry’s sake, we’ve got to stick it out somehow. 
He mustn’t know or guess—we’ve got to—^bite hard 
on the blanket-” 

Deirdre nodded, not trusting herself to speak. 

“It will all be very simple,” he went on reassuringly. 
“This evening after tea I’ll go into Bamberly and send 
a wire off to myself, asking me to come back to town 
at once on business. I can’t stay any longer—^you must 
see that I can’t stay. It wouldn’t be fair to either of 
us, or to—Terry-” 

She suddenly looked up at him with frightened eyes. 

“But—but you’ll stay in England? You won’t go to 
Venice? I can see you after a little while? Oh, Guy, 
I’ll be brave—as brave as you like, but if you go away 
I—I can’t bear it!” 

Very gently he soothed her. 

“No, I won’t go away, darling—just for a little 
while, until we both get into our stride again. Then 
we can be—friends, at least-” 

The full bitterness of what he was saying suddenly 
entered like iron into his soul. They looked at each 
other with intense longing and hopelessness. 

Then Deirdre turned away, her boyish figure in its 
green dress drooping as if she was deadly tired and 
old. 





28 o 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


'‘We’d better go home/' she said, and laughed on a 
cracked, flat note. 

The pathos of her voice and bearing made the boy 
wince. He put his arm round the drooping figure, and 
like that they walked slowly back along the needle- 
strewn path. Once she stumbled a little, as if she was 
walking in her sleep, and once she groped blindly for 
his hand, holding it tightly in both her own. At the 
little landing-stage she dropped it, and suddenly stood 
erect with squared shoulders and back-thrown head. 

“Thank you,” she said simply, and then got into 
the canoe without looking at him again. . . . 

Once more the little craft skimmed over the water 
like a blown leaf, pushing its nose through the tangled 
lily leaves, drifting out of the golden haze into the 
aquamarine shadow. All the way they were silent— 
at the boat-house, walking across the park in the shade 
of the chestnuts. A herd of deer were browsing on 
the short, sweet grass—they looked at the intruders 
with soft, startled eyes, poised beautifully for flight. 

They went through the high iron gates in the south 
wall of the garden, and up the yew alley which they 
had traversed by moonlight. In the thick, screening 
shadow of the huge cedar tree on the lawn they paused 
listening. Voices floated down to them from the ter¬ 
race—Terence’s gay, infectious laugh, Olivia’s stam¬ 
mer, and some woman’s voice, smooth and somewhat 
silky. Then a man laughed—a hoarse, chuckling roar 
of laughter. 

“Visitors,” thought Guy. “Oh, my God! On this 
afternoon of all afternoons!” 


“ THE SPLENDOUR AND THE PAIN ” 281 


Deirdre had turned on him a suddenly piteous face. 
She clung to him like a terrified child. 

“Oh, Guy, I can’t face them. I can’t— can't bear it!” 

Very softly he whispered : 

“Steady—darling, darling—^bite hard on the 

blanket!” 

The panic died out of her eyes—she stood erect, and 
smiled into his eyes. 

“You—you beautiful, gallant thing!” he said very 
low, almost awed by the deathless courage of her. 

She smiled at him again, reassuringly, tenderly, and 
then side by side they passed out of the cedar’s dim, 
drooping shade into the sunshine. 

On the terrace tea was waiting—the dogs were in 
hopeful attendance, Olivia lying back on her sofa, 
chatting to a dapper little man with a small red mous¬ 
tache and twinkling blue eyes—Terence was sitting 
talking to a languid lady in a Chinese blue hat—Mrs. 
Vauxall of Coombe End, the Dowager’s special crony, 
a celebrated gossip, and the object of Olivia’s intense 
loathing. 

They all stopped talking by one accord, and looked 
at the new-comers. Deirdre went forward perfectly as¬ 
sured, smiling a little, to greet Mrs. Vauxall and the 
blue-eyed little man, who turned out to be her brother, 
Sir Aubrey Manson—Guy was introduced and the gay 
babel of chatter broke out again. 

They all noticed how brilliantly beautiful Deirdre 
was that afternoon—Terence, with pride, Olivia 
thoughtfully, Mrs. Vauxall with frosty suspicion. Sir 
Aubrey admiringly, and Guy Wyndham with a heart- 


282 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


sick knowledge of her supreme courage. She reminded 
him of a gay young soldier, desperately wounded, yet 
fighting like a wild thing, and laughing as he fought. 
Her eyes seemed to have gained depth and sparkle, 
her curving mouth a more vivid tint—the only nervous 
thing about her were her hands, which fluttered as she 
talked, or lay twisted together in her lap. 

As he carried on an aimless conversation with Mrs. 
Vauxall, Guy watched her talking and laughing with 
Terence and Sir Aubrey. From her his eyes went to 
Liscarney. He was sitting on the end of Olivia’s sofa, 
looking at his wife with dog-like eyes. He wore an 
immaculate grey suit, and his beautifully brushed fair 
hair looked tawnily silver in the sunshine. 

Guy stared at him with dull eyes. He came to 
himself with a start to find Mrs. Vauxall speaking in 
her curiously, silky, smooth voice. 

“Lady Liscarney is charming, is she not?” she was 
saying softly. 

Guy looked round and saw the sly, pale eyes looking 
at him sideways from beneath their made-up lashes. 
The thin red lips were sneering. 

Why he should have felt her words as an insult he 
did not know, but all of a sudden he felt a blind fury 
—the blood rushed up under his dark skin. Then he 
turned and saw Olivia looking at him from »her sofa. 
Sympathy, a warning, a staunch faith—those he saw 
in her brown eyes. He smiled at her, and smiling, 
turned back to Mrs. Vauxall. 

“Very charming,” he said quietly and pleasantly, but 
there was a glint of steel beneath the velvet of his voice. 


CHAPTER X 


THE GREAT PRETEND 

I 

A WEEK later Guy Wyndham was walking down 
Piccadilly in the May sunshine. 

The pavements were crowded with people, all in gay 
colours and with a general air of Summer about them. 
The ’buses lumbering seemed to fit in with this gaiety 
—their paint looked fresh and vivid, and the notices 
with which they were plastered, advertising Sunday 
periodicals and the Co-optimists and Jose Collins, were 
brilliant jumbles of scarlet and jade and orange. There 
was a block of traffic a little further down—the police¬ 
man, implacable as a figure of Destiny, was holding 
up his white-gloved hands in the attitude of a dancer 
on an Egyptian frieze. 

Guy had eyes for no one else but girls—slender girls 
who walked well. There were dozens of them passing 
along—girls with scarlet lips and audacious eyes, girls 
with slim, silk-hosed ankles and narrow shoes, girls 
with hennaed hair and delicately tinted skin, who left 
a sweet, subtle breath of Russian violets behind them 
as they walked along, girls in blue and almond-green 
and cinnamon—^they looked like flowers—Piccadilly 
283 


284 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


became a veritable border of hyacinths, gay in the 
warm sunshine. At all of them Guy looked casually, 
and they looked back at him, softly, smilingly, 

haughtily, naughtily- But he did not find the girl 

he was looking for—a girl with green, shining eyes, 
and nervous hands, and a vivid mouth. . . . 

He went into his club to get his letters, and stayed 
talking with a man just back from America, who had 
been at Winchester with him. They sat talking for 
some time, and went out together. 

Guy said good-bye to his friend and walked slowly 
round to his chambers at the Aldwych. He felt 
moody and depressed. For the last week he had been 
expecting the letter and the telephone call that never 
came. To-day’s mail had been nondescript—a letter 
from his Press-cutting agency, his tailor’s bill, a few 
epistles from total strangers who had read Search, 
full of praise or disapproval, a note, written on palest 
lilac paper, from a woman reminding him of an en¬ 
gagement for the following week- 

No letter from Deirdre- 

His large front room with its three big windows 
was full of warm air and sunshine. Guy flung himself 
down in a huge leather arm-chair, and stared up at 
the ceiling through half-shut eyes. The roar and 
rumble of the traffic in the street beneath had blended 
into a drowsy, not unpleasant blur, like the droning 
of a giant bee. 

The room itself was pleasant, papered in a pale 
shade of cinnamon brown. In the space between the 
two largest windows was his desk, solid and workman- 





THE GREAT PRETEND 


285 


like, covered with an untidy litter of papers and books. 
Books lined one side of the wall—their soft, mellow, 
gold-tooled bindings gave him a lazy feeling of 
pleasure. A big, brown leather lounge, piled with 
Chinese brocade cushions, stood in an alcove formed 
by a beautiful vermilion and gold lacquer screen. There 
were few pictures on the walls—a fine old print or 
two, subdued and gracious, a small water-colour of a 
Venetian lagoon by moonlight, all cold blues, and 
translucent greens and smoky greys. The room smelt 
faintly and pleasantly of Russian leather and the 
Egyptian cigarettes he smoked. 

The drowsy, somnolent haze of the silence was 
stabbed sharply by the shrill voice of the telephone. 
Guy sprang to his feet, had crossed the room in two 
long strides, and picked up the receiver. 

-Halloa-” 

A man’s voice answered, sounding absurdly thin 
and remote. 

“That you, Wyndham? Carruthers speaking. Got 
two stalls for the Haymarket on Monday night. Care 
to come? Rather a good show, I believe-” 

He answered mechanically, forcing cordial en¬ 
thusiasm. 

“I say, thanks awfully. . . . What? ... oh, yes 
—right-oh! . . . The club at 7.30? . . . Right . . . 
thanks . . . cheer-oh!” 

He hung up the receiver with a bang, and, going to a 
side table, mixed himself a drink. 

Standing with the glass in his hand he looked at his 
bookshelves, touching with a loving finger the green 




286 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


and gold binding of Pendennis, the brown morocco 
that enshrined the delicate wit of Moliere, the gold 
tooled leather of Pepys. He seemed nervous and 
irritable—walking round the room fidgeting with the 
cushions and the papers on his desk. He went over to 
a window, stood listening to the subdued roar of the 
traffic—taxis hooting, ’buses rumbling along like 
modern tumbrils, newsboys, shrill messengers of the 
gods, running shouting among the crowd. 

After a few minutes Guy crossed the room again 
and sat down on the leather lounge running thin 
fingers nervously through his dark hair. He picked up 
the Morning Post, scanned the headlines indifferently, 
and threw it down again. A pencil of sunshine picked 
out the small gold figures and tipsy pagodas on the 
lacquer screen, and made the plump orange shade of 
the tall standard lamp look like a warmly glowing 
Chinese lantern. 

Again the telephone bell tinkled sharply. This time 
Guy was almost too deliberate. Putting down his 
glass carefully, he got up and crossed the room, pick¬ 
ing up the receiver with assumed nonchalance. 

“Halloa-” 

A girl’s voice this time—he recognized it even 
through the throaty, buzzing medium of the telephone. 

“Is—is this Mr. Wyndham speaking?” 

“Yes—that you, Deirdre?” 

“Yes, it’s me!” said the small, still voice in his ear. 
“We got back yesterday-” 

He searched wildly for something to say, and could 
only manage tritely: 


THE GREAT PRETEND 


287 


“Fm so glad—how are you?” 

^‘Very well, thanks,” said Deirdre brilliantly. “Can 
you come and dine with us at the Savoy to-morrow? 
We’re going on to some sort of show after.” 

He hesitated a little- 

“I—thanks awfully—yes, I should love to-” 

There was a tiny silence, then: 

“Guy!” 

“Halloa?” 

“I want to see you first—^before to-morrow. Can 
you manage it?” 

Exultation—^tingling like a flame. 

“Could you manage tea with me to-day, do you 
think?” 

“Yes—somewhere where we can talk—” 

“What about the Ritz—it’s as quiet as a vault at 
tea-time ?” 

“That will do—I’ll meet you in the lounge, then, at 
half-past four-” 

“Right—you’ll come, won’t you, Deirdre?” 

He heard her elusive laughter. 

“Of course, you silly! Good-bye-” 

‘ ‘ Good-bye-’ ’ 

He hung up with reluctance, turning back to the 
brown and orange room that seemed suddenly to be 
full of sunshine and the scent of hyacinths. He was 
going to see her soon—^to-day—alone! Life was 
all at once a splendour, a divine glory, that enveloped 
him in warmth like a flame. 

As he stood there exulting, he caught sight of a 
photo that stood on his desk. It was a sentimental 





288 


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souvenir of school days—a house group taken on one 
of his first terms. There he was, a thin little boy with 
solemn dark eyes and a faunish mouth. And there, in 
the very centre of the group, was Terence Liscarney, 
head of the house, a glorious creature with slicked 
hair and the rather self-conscious expression of a god 
on Olympus. Guy came closer and picked up the 
photo, looking at it intently. All those other faces— 
he remembered them so well. There was Wycome, 
small and dark and slim, sitting on the other side of 
the house-master, looking amused and a trifle bored. 
There was Marshall—it had been his first term there, 
Guy remembered—and Bentley, leader of the school 
orchestra—^poor old Bentley, who was killed at Vimy 
Ridge. The long, thin boy with untidy hair was 
Rogers—he was in India now—and there was Beau¬ 
mont, with his long, fox-like face, who had been given 
the sack in Guy’s first year. And Fletcher—^he had 
run across Fletcher only the other day in the Piccadilly 
grill, just home from ranching in Rhodesia. Again 
he looked at Terry. The clear, frank eyes seemed to 
smile up at him affectionately. 

Quite suddenly Guy remembered a lot of little things 
about his first terms at Winchester. He had been 
Terry’s fag—Terry had taken a fancy to him, much 
to his pride and delight. Terry had let him bring 
his prep, into his study in the evenings, and had conde¬ 
scended to listen sometimes while he talked. Those 
had been halcyon evenings—Guy could remember the 
lamp-light on Terence’s fair hair, and the way he used 
to look up and grin at him occasionally. The big 


THE GREAT PRETEND 


289 


boy had been genuinely fond of his fag. Guy even 
remembered how, when Terence was leaving, he had, 
with extreme embarrassment, given him a moral 
lecture, which, by the way, had flown completely over 
his head. Also he had given him a long-coveted 
volume of Tennyson, which Guy received with more 
enthusiasm. And he had promised that he would 
come down from Oxford on Old Boys’ Day, and on 
various other occasions, to see how his protege was 
getting on—a promise which was faithfully kept. 

Guy put down the photo again—a little of his joy 
was dimmed by the glance of Terence Liscarney’s 
affectionate eyes. He moved away, his forehead 
wrinkled, picked up his hat and stick, and went out to 
lunch at the club. 

Something had gone wrong with the machinery of 
the afternoon. It was the longest that Guy had ever 
spent. It seemed to him as if someone had grabbed up 
all the hours into a bunch, and was letting the minutes 
slip out grudgingly one by one, like a miser giving 
away pieces of long-hoarded gold. He played bridge 
after lunch—his nerves were on edge, and his usually 
good game went to pieces. At four o’clock he left, and 
strolled over to the Ritz. 

Of course he was much too early. After engaging a 
small table in a quiet corner, he went out into the 
lounge and sat down on a large brocaded settee. 
People passed in and out, laughing and talking—the 
unseen orchestra started to play one of Brahm’s 
Hungarian dances. A large party of Americans came 
in, the men dapper and immaculate, the women bearing 


290 


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the unmistakable American stamp of well-groomed 
sleekness. Every time the big doors swung open Guy 
glanced towards them eagerly, but although many girls 
passed through them, the one he was looking for did 
not. Once he thought he saw her, but was disappoint¬ 
ed. Panic seized him that she might not come, but 
a glance at his watch reassured him. After all, he 
was to blame for coming so early. 

It seemed to him that all the girls of the morning 
had gathered here again, with their mysterious eyes, 
and scarlet lips, and slender ankles, swaying past him 
with an alluring rustle of silk and lace, leaving behind 
them the faintest of sweet, subtle perfumes. 

She was late, of course, coming into the lounge and 
looking round her in a sweet flurry. Guy did not get 
up for a minute, but sat on, dallying with the dear 
delight of watching every line and tint and poise of 
her. 

Then he crossed over to her—she saw him coming a 
long way off. 

“Oh, there you are! Am I late ? I generally am!” 

“Not at all”—forgetting five minutes of panic- 
stricken waiting—“how ripping to see you!” 

She smiled up at him, in a way that almost made 
Guy forget they were in the lounge of the Ritz, and 
that many eyes were watching them. 

He piloted her to their table. They sat down in a 
little alcove, screened from the eyes of the curious by 
a large palm and a bank of rose-flushed azaleas. The 
waiter discreetly vanished, and they were alone, looking 
at each other over the little table. 


THE GREAT PRETEND 


291 


“You—you look stunning!” said Guy, like a boy. 

She drew off long gloves, laying them on the table 
beside a small jewelled bag. Then she looked at him 
softly, like the Deirdre of Gilly’s Wood. “If you 
knew how—good it was to see you!” 

He leant forward a little, dark eyes ardent. 

The waiter reappeared like a discreet wraith, bearing 
a covered dish of buttered toast. 

Deirdre picked up the tea-pot, enquiring as to Guy’s 
tastes in cream and sugar. Their fingers met as he 
took the cup, brushed for a leaping second. The 
orchestra was playing “The Mikado”—the violins 
like voices joining in with the deeper notes of the 
’cello. 

“Braid the raven hair, paint the pretty face-” 

Deirdre listened a moment before she said uncer¬ 
tainly, not looking at him; 

“I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted to see 

you ?” 

“I don’t mind why —as long as you’re here! This 
week has been the longest I’ve ever spent!” 

For a moment her guard slipped, and she leant 
forward eagerly, eyes shining. 

“Oh, has it been with you too? When you left 
I couldn’t bear the country! I was almost a little 
mad, I think—the silence used to make me want to 
scream! I—I made Terry come up to town sooner 
than we were going to, just—just to see you 
again-” 

He did not answer—he was too enraptured watch¬ 
ing the tilt of her lips, and the way her lashes made a 



THE SHORELESS SEA 


292 

little lilac shadow on the warm whiteness of her skin. 

‘T wanted to see you,” said Deirdre hesitatingly. 
“To—sort of break the ice. It was Terry’s idea— 
the Savoy to-morrow, and I felt that I couldn’t meet 
you with Olivia and Terry looking on—I was sure 
that I should collapse, and make a fool of myself.” 
She looked at him with a little smile that was somehow 
pathetic. “I’m not as brave as you think, Guy—In 
fact. I’m a beastly coward-” 

His warm gaze surrounded her, like the clasp of 
impetuous arms. 

“Coward? You absurd baby!” 

“Oh, but I am! And I feel guilty, too. The others 
don’t know I’m here. Terry’s out, and Olivia departed 
with the nice Mallory boy to a the dansant. So I 
came along. Do you think it’s wicked of me?” Her 
eyes were wistfully inquiring. 

He felt a quite unexpected rush of anger. 

“Wicked? Deirdre, remember that whatever you 
do is good. You couldn’t be wicked if you tried. The 
word—the word—it’s a horrible word—I wish you 
wouldn’t use it-” 

She looked at him teasingly, softly. 

“Why, look at the child! He’s getting quite angry! 
Look at his eyes sparkling and his mouth setting into 
an ril-know-the-reason-why line! Do take off that 

expression, Guy, and have an anchovy sandwich-” 

She pushed the plate towards him smilingly. 

“Oh Lord, I don’t want a sandwich! I want to sit 
and look at you, although I know it’s a pastime which 
will cost me dear later on.” 





THE GREAT PRETEND 


293 


“Why?” she enquired, pouring herself out another 
cup of tea. 

“Because I shall wake up in the night thinking of 
you, and seeing you sitting in the darkness by my bed, 
smiling at me. And there will be no more sleep for me 
that night-” 

The violins were wailing, sobbingly- 

“A wandering minstrel, I, a thing of rags and 
patches-” 

The azaleas drifted to them a wave of faint, subtle 
fragrance. Deirdre felt her defences crumbling, break¬ 
ing down one by one. She said desperately: 

“Oh, Guy, don’t-” 

“Don’t what?” 

“Don’t talk like that. Remember we’re friends now 
—nothing more than friends. Don’t—don’t make it 
harder for me than it is already-” 

The boy saw with anger against himself that her 
lips were trembling, and that she was twisting her 
hands together as if trying to control herself. He 
said swiftly: 

“I’m sorry—it’s when I look at you that I forget 
—Deirdre, it’s going to be hard—harder than you 
realize- 

Her smile was gallant. 

“We can fight, though—we must!” 

He looked at her miserably, his sensitive mouth 
twitching a little. The tension was relieved by a 
waiter who appeared with a tray of fascinating French 
cakes. Mechanically Deirdre chose the ones she 
wanted, and he lifted them on to her plate—Guy re- 






294 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


fused them curtly, and the waiter disappeared like a 
noiseless, efficient shadow. 

Deirdre went on musingly: 

“Why, it was you who told me to ‘bite hard on the 
blanket!’ Why this sudden collapse of your courage? 
We must be friends—after all, that’s something—we 
can be friends all our lives. And Terry mustn’t suspect 
or have cause to suspect anything. That’s only fair, 
Guy-” 

A tall, slender girl, dressed in a curious shade of 
amber with a large black hat, passed their alcove, 
followed by a big, rather distinguished looking man 
with sleek grey hair and square dark-skinned face. 
As they passed the girl shot them a casual glance from 
slightly bored, red-brown eyes, and recognition leapt 
into them. She smiled and called out: 

“Halloa Deirdre!’’ 

Deirdre waved her hand gaily, and then turned to 
Guy. 

“That is Lady Norma Mills—lovely, isn’t she? She 
and I stayed at the Westcotes’ together.” After a 
minute she said slowly: “Guy, I wish you’d marry 
some nice, beautiful girl like Norma. I shouldn’t 
mind if only I knew you were happy. It’s knowing 
that you are unhappy that hurts.” 

To her relief the boy’s mood had passed, and he 
smiled at her mockingly, tenderly, in his old way. 

“My blessed child! Your remedy is like offering 
Jupiter in a fury a cough-drop to suck! I ought to be 
angry with you, but I won’t. No, we’ll just stick 
it out, as you said, and perhaps when we’re old, old 



THE GREAT PRETEND 


295 


people we’ll have forgotten all about it and you’ll 
look at me and say—‘How could I have thought that 
I loved him!’ ” 

“And you will say—‘She hasn’t worn well, poor 
thing! Ah me, what a foolish youth I was!’” 

Her lips were smiling, but there was a little shake 
in her voice. When one is twenty-one, and sitting 
opposite the man you love best in the world, the 
prospect of an old age when passion shall have faded, 
and toned down into a mellow mezzotint of friend¬ 
ship, seems remote and extraordinarily dreary. 

Guy heard that forlorn little quiver, and suddenly 
his voice was beautifully gentle. 

“You brave, forlorn little thing! You’re as gallant 
as a soldier outwardly, but I believe you’re crying 
underneath the gallantry, aren’t you?” 

Her hands went to her breast in a little, nervous 
fluttering gesture. 

“Oh, don’tr she said piteously. “Please be gay, and 
—and jolly. If you’re not, I—I shall be a fool, and 
I can’t be—not here in the Ritz anyway!” 

He wanted desperately to go and put his arms round 
her and defy the world, but he just sat on looking at 
her—looking at her. 

“It’s funny,” she said slowly. “I thought by marry¬ 
ing Terence that I had escaped from everything ugly 
and unhappy. And now here I am, with all the beauty 
I wanted, and—and Terence to love me, and I’m 
miserable-” 

“You won’t be after a little while, Dear. No 
misery lasts, however deep it is. And Terence loves 



296 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


you with all his heart. We mustn’t think of our¬ 
selves—only of him. We must just put our own 
feelings on one side, and concentrate on his happiness. 
He’s worth it, you know. Dear.” 

She said nothing, so he went on, a tinge of deeper 
feeling vibrating in his voice in spite of himself. 

“If only the Powers that be had kept me out of your 
life for ever—The cruellest cut of all was sending us 
together again when it was too late. Oh, Deirdre, 
if only you’d waited-” 

Her voice was soft and a little shaken. 

“Does one ever wait—at eighteen? I really didn’t 
realize that I loved you, only that I wanted you to 
come back desperately badly. And the gates of Prison 
were closing in on me—Terence stood just outside, 
the only means of escape. Aunt Vi died very suddenly 
—I was all alone—I don’t think my mind was working 
properly. When I was normal again—we were 
married.” 

A little silence. 

Then: 

“How those azaleas smell!” said Deirdre. “They’re 
almost—overpowering-’ ’ 

She suddenly pushed back her plate with a little 
crash. “I must go.” 

She picked up her gloves and started nervously 
and clumsily to drag them on. Her eyes looked tired 
and heavy. 

Together they passed through the lounge, away 
from the rose-lit corner, away from the scent of the 
azaleas and the wailing violins. Deirdre dropped her 




THE GREAT PRETEND 


297 


little brocaded bag, and Guy picked it up for her—^^her 
fingers felt numbed and curiously stiff. 

“Are you going to walk home?” he asked. “Or 
is your car here ?” 

“Pm going to take a taxi,” she said. “And trundle 
round for a bit before I go home.” 

The commissionaire called a taxi for her, and she got 
in, pausing with a foot on the step. 

“Good-bye, and thank you very much. To-morrow 
night I shall be—oh, so brave again! That’s what I 
wanted this meeting for, to get us into our stride. 
Good-bye, Guy and—don’t worry, will you?” 

She said to the taxi-driver: 

“Drive round St. James’s Park for about half-an- 
hour or so, and then to 57, Clement Street, please-” 

Guy shut the door, and stood back, raising his hat. 

The taxi ru'mbled away. Inside Deirdre sat in her 
corner, huddled into rather a pathetic heap, staring out 
at the busy thoroughfare with unseeing eyes. 

II 

Olivia was in love—for the moment. 

Deirdre, used to the astounding heaps of her ver¬ 
satile affections, looked on and smiled, while she let 
Chris Mallory monopolize her. This arrangement was 
entirely satisfactory to them all—Deirdre because 
Chris was a “nice boy,” Olivia for the practical reasons 
that he danced perfectly, and knew the sort of choco¬ 
lates she liked, Sam the Sealyham because Mr. Mallory 
had nice calves, and knew how a dog liked to be 
talked to. So Miss Bellamy went to thes dansants, 



298 


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matinees, and the Motor Show, escorted by the charm¬ 
ing and ingenuous Chris, and everyone was happy. 

This arrangement left Deirdre a good bit to herself, 
for Terence, outwardly grumbling but secretly quite 
pleased, had to run down to Greyfriars to look after 
things. Alarming reports had reached him about the 
state of the crops—Jenkins, the agent, was apparently 
very much overworked—he wanted Terence’s advice 
about this and that. The crop in the ten-acre field was 
ruined—Some cottages by the mill were in urgent need 
of repairs—There was a new reaper on the market 
which would save double the labour. 

Hearing all this, Terence fretted restlessly in Lon¬ 
don. He wanted to be at Greyfriars himself—on the 
spot, where he could keep an eye on things. So at last 
he announced that he was going down to Sussex for 
a few weeks to take charge of affairs, as to be away 
any longer from his beloved estate would be sheer 
torture. Besides, “that ass Jenkins” was sure to bungle 
things by himself. 

Deirdre had announced her intention of going with 
him, only to be vigorously howled down. 

“Rubbish! Think I’m going to let you miss the 
Season to vegetate in the country? No, you stay up 
here—you’ll be quite all right with Olivia and Jingle to 
look after you.” 

Deirdre made a desperate last effort. 

“But, dear, won’t you be lonely without me? 
Mater’s going away, and-” 

“Lonely? My dear girl, I won’t get time to be 
lonely I There’s any amount of work to be done.” 



THE GREAT PRETEND 


299 


Deirdre laughed at his important air. 

“Terry, ’fess that you don’t mind going very 
much-!” 

'‘I—oh, well,—I don’t really, except for leaving 
you. I love Grey friars and pottering round the 
estate, and wearing old tweeds instead of appearing 
immaculately attired at thes dansants and theatre 
parties!” 

“How long will you be away?’’ asked Deirdre. 

“About a month, I’m afraid. Perhaps not that— 
it depends. But Jingle will trot you round—he’ll 
love it—and you two get on so well together.” 

Deirdre, looking at his frank face, wished desper¬ 
ately that he was not so guileless. Anything was 
better than this attitude of unsuspicious innocence. 

“Well, ril run down for week ends, Terry, dear, to 
see how you’re getting on. But I’m not really very 
sorry for you, for I know you’ll revel in it.” 

So Terence had departed, relieved to escape a month 
of the loathed season, and leaving Guy Wyndham 
as his aide-de-camp. 

Deirdre could see no way out of accepting this new, 
intimate comradeship with Guy, which Terence him¬ 
self thrust upon her. To refuse to see anything of him 
would raise—if not suspicion—-at least astonishment 
in Terry’s simple soul. Besides, it would seem morally 
cowardly, and Deirdre was schooling herself to a new 
and Spartan courage which admitted not even a thought 
which was disloyal to Terry. She flattered herself that 
she was succeeding, therefore with a gay recklessness 
she snatched up the challenge which was flung down 



300 


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to prove her worth, careless how it might hurt or 
test her strength. 

The month slipped away on dancing feet. It was a 
hot summer, and London lay shimmering in a haze 
of heat. Despite the weather, all London was dancing. 
Guy and Deirdre danced with it, dreaming away that 
golden month. 

He escorted Deirdre and Olivia, with Mr. Mallory 
in attendance, to the Derby—Deirdre’s very first 
Derby, where she sat with thumping heart and shining 
eyes and watched the favourite romp home. They 
made the most of that golden month—packing into 
it everything they possibly could. Deirdre revived all 
her old acquaintance with London’s famous houses 
and streets, this time with the ideal companion. 

One afternoon they went to the Zoo, where Deirdre 
fed the bears with buns, took a dislike to the monkey- 
house because of its smell, and was fascinated by the 
perfect grace and topaz eyes of the lions. 

So they played together, trying rather pathetically 
to forget the shadow between them in a whirl of 
gaiety. 

The Frivolity was the home of the Goddess Jazz— 
one of those rose-pink and gilt places where the 
younger set gather together to dance. They went there 
to dance one afternoon. 

Deirdre had often been there, but never before with 
Guy. She wore all black with an audacious hat, and 
because she was happy, she was beautiful. 

The place was full—Deirdre liked the crowd. She 
liked to be in the centre of the eddying swirl of 


THE GREAT PRETEND 


301 


humanity, with Guy’s arms round her, Guy’s dark 
eyes looking down into hers. They danced together 
perfectly—people watched them a good deal. The}^ 
were an extraordinarily beautiful pair, Guy, slender 
and well knit, Deirdre with her cheeks flushed—her 
shining, shining eyes. A small slim girl in orange with 
a bird of Paradise sweeping round her brown hat, 
called out as she passed in the arms of a pallid youth 
with pale eyes: 

‘^’Loa, Deirdre!” 

“’Loa, Betty!” 

As they were swept on into the maze of dancers. 

“That was Betty Van Sittart,” said Deirdre. She 
was frowning a little. “She’s a dear, but she will 
chatter about everyone and everything. In a day every¬ 
one will know that we have been dancing at the Friv. 
together—^the story much elaborated, and with many 
embroideries, of course-” 

Guy laughed suddenly. 

“Who cares?” he said. 

Deirdre’s mouth tilted into a smile. 

“Who cares?” she echoed defiantly. 

They were both a little intoxicated by their nearness, 
the music, the shifting mosaic of dancers. 

Glorious Folly tingled in their veins like a fire. 


CHAPTER XI 


STRAWS 

I 


Two weeks—— 

Ten days- 

One week- 

The days slipped away from beneath their eager 
fingers. Every day they dined or danced together, 
went out in the car, to the theatre, rode in Rotten 
Row. Sometimes Olivia was with them—more often 
they were alone. People began to talk, led by Mrs. 
Vauxall. They danced on together, careless of what 
the world was saying. 

Deirdre was only brought down to earth by some¬ 
thing that Dahlia said one day at tea. It was a grey 
day, bereft of sunshine. Outside, the streets, wet with 
rain, were glistening like wet oilskin. Inside the lamps 
were lit and the soft, rose-shaded light gleamed on the 
silver and delicate china of the tea table. Deirdre, in 
a grey dress like a mist cloud, was curled up in a big 
arm-chair pensively nibbling a macaroon. Her hair 
was done in the American way—a soft mass of cluster¬ 
ing curls at the back. Dahlia, looking at her, again 
stoutly denied within herself that all the countless 


302 





STRAWS 


303 


rumours going round the town were true. It seemed 
impossible that this soft, childish creature, with her 
clear eyes and gay smile, could be touched and smirched 
by the breath of scandal. Yet Dahlia was sick at heart 
that Terry was going to be hurt by it all—Terry, who 
she loved like her own brother, Terry, who had fought 
with her, and squabbled and kissed her and given her a 
guinea-pig years and years ago . . . Now, with ex¬ 
traordinary minuteness, she remembered that guinea- 
pig. It had been warm and soft, with sleek black fur, 
and a crumpled pink rose-leaf of a nose. 

Deirdre was speaking. She dragged herself back to 
listen. 

“Isn’t this a rotten day for July to spring on us? 
I hate these grey, dull days-” 

She broke off a piece of macaroon and gave it to 
the Sealyham. Dahlia watched her with affectionate, 
yet strangely watchful eyes. 

“What are you doing this evening, Deirdre? As 
Olivia has a cold, and you’re all alone, why don’t you 
come round and dine with us? Gervase hasn’t seen 
you for ages.” 

Deirdre took up the silver tea-pot, smiling at her. 

“Dahlia darling, I’d love to, but I’m booked up for 
this evening. Guy is taking me to the new show at the 
Palace, and we’re dining at the Savoy.” 

Dahlia put down her cup with a little crash, and 
suddenly sat up with a little air of determination 
that would have been funny if it hadn’t been so seri¬ 
ous. 

“Deirdre, are you merely foolish and very innocent, 



304 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


or totally deaf and blind, or are you just recklessly 
running your head into the net? I can’t decide for 
myself.” 

Deirdre stopped eating macaroons, and looked up at 
her in bewilderment. 

“What—what on earth do you mean?” 

Dahlia’s brown eyes were glittering. 

“Just this—I’m going to tell you frankly, because 
I think you’re too childish to know. The common 
gossip of the town is coupling your name and Guy 
Wyndham’s together.” 

“Oh—” said Deirdre breathlessly. And then 
again, like a rather frightened little girl— ''Oh!” 

Dahlia felt an immense pity for her. and at the 
same time an immense fury. 

“Oh, Deirdre, couldn’t you have guessed —you’re 
not a child—you know what Mrs. Vauxall and her 
set are like. And yet deliberately you—oh, Deirdre!” 

Deirdre was not looking frightened or childish any 
more. She was sitting upright, with narrowed eyes 
and tightly folded lips. Her voice when she spoke was 
like steel, and it hurt Dahlia as no tears could have 
done. 

“As you have gone so far, you may as well tell me 
the rumours that Mrs. Vauxall has been kind enough 
to spread. It won’t hurt me-” 

Dahlia rumpled her flaming hair with a nervous 
hand. She did not look at the slim figure in the chair, 
but away out of the window at the grey houses, the 
grey skies- 

“They were all—they were all rather beastly,, 




STRAWS 


305 


Deirdre. The—the usual thing, you know-” 

She paused uncertainly. 

There was a tense silence, then the erect, slender 
figure seemed to crumple up in the big chair. 

“Oh, the beasts!” sobbed Deirdre. “Oh, the dirty, 
damnable beastsT 

Dahlia could find no words for consolation. She 
just crossed over to the forlorn, crumpled little figure, 
and put her arms round it, patting and stroking the 
slim, shaking shoulders. She looked round at the 
tousled curls—the pretty, pretty curls all disarranged 
and untidy. 

“There, there,” she said helplessly. “There, there, 

darling-” The words she would have used to 

console Porzie after a tumble! 

The futility of using them in this case struck her 
sharply. She went on patting and stroking, her eyes 
very tender. 

Presently Deirdre sat up and pushed back the hair 
from her eyes. They were still furiously angry, al¬ 
though the soft mouth was trembling like a hurt child’s. 

“Dahlia,” she said, “it wasn’t true. You don’t 
believe it, do you. Dahlia? That—that devil of a 
woman! Oh, Dahlia, you do believe me, don’t you?” 

Her hot little hands clutched at Dahlia’s cool ones. 

“Of course darling,” said Dahlia soothingly. “There, 
there, sweetheart. Don’t you worry—there, there 

“Oh, you’re good. Dahlia!” said the forlorn little 
voice. She hid her tear-stained face in Dahlia’s slim 
shoulder. Presently she said in a muffled voice: 





306 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Was—was there anything else ?” 

“There were—several other things which you 
needn’t know, dearest. I know that they’re a pack of 
abominable lies, but, still—false mud sticks as well as 
genuine mud, Deirdre, especially when it’s thrown by 
Mrs. Vauxall’s set-’’ 

“Is—is she in London now?” asked Deirdre. 

“She is, more’s the pity. I loathe the woman—cut 
her dead in Bond Street this morning. She had a 
friend of ours with her, too.” 

“A friend of ours?” 

“The Dowager-” said Dahlia. “Deirdre, that 

woman hates you just as much as Terry loves you. 
Even though she adores him I believe she’d like to see 
you—get the worst of things, even though it would 
break Terry’s heart.” 

“Yes,” said Deirdre slowly. It would break 
Terry’s heart.” She said, with another rush of sobs, 
“Oh, Dahlia, I don’t want Terry’s heart to be broken!” 

Dahlia hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. She 
said soberly: 

“He was a fool ever to go away and leave you, but 
he’s as guileless as you are. You’re just a pair of silly 
babies. But when he comes back he’s sure to hear a 
rumour or something about it, and it will hurt 
him-” 

Up went Deirdre’s head. 

“He won’t believe it! Terry will know it’s not 
true-” 

“Of course he will, but—^but the smirch remains. 
You see what I mean, darling? The—foulness of the 






STRAWS 


307 

mud will stick, and Terry will be miserable, even 
though he knows that it’s not true-” 

Deirdre lifted a forlorn face. 

‘Then what can I do? I—I don’t know what to 
do-” 

“You must kill all these rumours,” said Dahlia with 
finality. “At once. You mustn’t go about with Jingle 
again. People have seen you together everywhere— 
Norma Mills, Betty Van Sittart—and you know what 
a babbler that girl is. But first of all I want you to 
answer a question. You may be angry, but I don’t 

care. It’s for your own good-” She hesitated, 

then took the plunge with characteristic impetuosity. 
“Do you love Guy Wyndham, Deirdre?” 

Deirdre drew a long breath sharply, as if someone 
had struck her in the face. Her eyes were steady, and 
clear as a child’s. 

“Yes,” she said simply and quietly, “I do-” 

Silence for a moment, then Dahlia made a funny 
little gesture. 

“That complicates matters,” she said slowly. 

Deirdre suddenly leant forward and put her hand on 
Dahlia’s knee. 

“He loves me too,” she said simply. “We met over 
three years ago, when we were children, in a wood. 
I think we loved each other then, only we didn’t realize 

it until it was too late—too late-” It was raining 

again outside, with a gentle, swishing, plaintive sound, 
like someone sighing. Deirdre went on softly: 
“Dahlia, Aunt Vi took me away from the home I 
loathed and hated, and gave me a brief happiness. 







3 o 8 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


She died. Terence asked me to marry him. It meant 
either going back again to prison, or escaping by 
marrying him. Do I sound horribly mercenary, 
Dahlia? I—I didn’t mean to be. It was just that 
I wanted to get out into happiness. I meant to make 
Terry very, very happy. Do I sound horrid?” 

“No, darling,” said Dahlia gently. She was curiously 
moved by the simple little narrative. 

“Of course I thought of Guy,” said Deirdre. “I 
didn’t exactly love him—it was just that I—wanted 
him so badly. I used to dream that he was standing 
laughing at me, and I couldn’t get to him. I used to 
wake up crying and calling him-” 

“But where was Guy then?” asked Dahlia. “You 
knew where he lived, didn’t you?” 

Deirdre shook her head. 

“We didn’t even know each other’s surnames. We 
were just Guy and Deirdre to each other until he had 
to go away suddenly to Italy. We never met again 
until this year.” 

Somehow the simple words were tragic. Dahlia 
stroked her hand, her brown eyes wet. 

“Oh, poor, poor!” she said crooningly. “You poor 
little thing! And to think that I knew Jingle all the 
time, when you were looking for him!” 

Deirdre nodded, her smile a little quivering. 

“Well, there I was. I could either wait for Guy, or 
take Terry. If I had been quite normal at the time, I 
don’t think I’d have married Terry. But Aunt Vi died 
very suddenly—I was ill. Just for a little while I think 
I wasn’t perfectly sane. So I married him.” 



STRAWS 


309 


“Poor, poor!” said Dahlia again petting that slender 
hand. 

“We travelled a lot, as you know. In the wonder 
of all the beautiful things I saw, I forgot—or thought 
I did. Then one night at the opera early in Spring we 
met again. Oh, Dahlia, the boy of Gilly’s Wood— 
Guy—was Terence’s best friend!” Her mouth was all 
twisted and trembling. “Even then I don’t think I 
really realized the truth. Or if I did I fought against 
it—for Terry’s sake. Terry was so sweet to me. 
Dahlia, so dear and good. His hair in the sunshine— 
have you ever noticed how silvery it is ? And the way 

he laughs—like a schoolboy-” 

Dahlia looked at her a little anxiously, but her voice 
was perfectly steady, her eyes sane. She went on in 
the same curiously emotionless voice, as if she was 
talking of someone else, and not herself. 

“We both fought until a day in May down at Grey- 
friars, when we just had to come face to face with 
things. I—it was awful. Dahlia. But Guy said that 
we must still stick it out for Terry’s sake. He said 
that we must ‘bite hard on the blanket.’ ” 

She laughed a little, with a curiously tinkling sound. 
“Yes, that sounds like Guy,” said Dahlia. “He’s 
a nice boy, Deirdre—^an extraordinarily nice and 
brilliant boy. I’m sorry—for both your sakes.” 

“You’re a darling. Dahlia,” said Deirdre. “And 
I’m glad that you’re happy, anyway, with Gervase and 
your blessed Porzie.” She bent down and petted the 
little white dog who was regarding her with bright 
and anxious eyes. “So you see how it is.'' If I 



310 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


hadn’t been such a fool as to let myself be talked 
about no one would have known. As it is, everyone 
knows—or think they know; the beasts.” The colour 
ran up under her skin in a hot flush. “Oh, Dahlia, 
what shall I do? Tell me what to do-” 

Dahlia pondered deeply, running slim fingers 
through her flaming red hair. She took a cigarette 
from a silver box on the table, and lit it slowly, look¬ 
ing at Deirdre through the curling lilac haze. 

“Guy must go away,” she said firmly. “Before 
Terence comes back, too. Then get Terry to take you 
abroad somewhere, where you’ll forget all this wretch¬ 
ed business. Fill your life with new things, stuff your 
mind with beauty and new interests and friends. Do 
anything, only for God’s sake try and forget Guy 
Wyndham. Stay away for some time, and when you 
come back Mrs. Vauxall and her gang will be throwing 
mud at some other unfortunate. That’s the best thing 
to do, darling.” 

“Yes, that’s the best thing to do,” said Deirdre 
slowly. She sat staring straight in front of her, dry¬ 
eyed, firm-lipped. “Shall I put off your dinner and 
theatre to-night, then?” 

Dahlia deliberated. 

“No, I shouldn’t. You’ve got to tell Jingle some 
time, so it may as well be to-night. And watch the 
people, dear—see if they stare at you, the beasts, and 
whisper and snigger. Darling, I hate to say that 
but they do, you know. I don’t expect you’ve ever 
noticed it before, bless you—in some ways you’re as 
innocent and childish as Porzie. I think that some 



STRAWS 


311 

part of you, like Peter Pan, has never grown up- ** 

Deirdre smiled a little twisted smile. 

“I don’t feel young—I feel old—old! Something 
in me has all withered and died.” She turned her 
beautiful head and looked at Dahlia with glowing eyes. 
“Dahlia, are you superstitious at all? I remember 
saying one night in bed, when I was thinking of all the 
beauty in the world, and longing to get out into it all, 
‘I’ll escape whatever it costs me! Whatever I have to 
pay! I’ll get out!’ Well, I got out, and—I paid. I 
wish I hadn’t said that. It sounds like defying Fate 
—flinging a challenge into the face of Destiny.” 

She shivered a little, as if a sudden breath of icy air 
had stolen into the warm, flower-scented room. 

“Rubbish!” said Dahlia with practical common 
sense. “I’m not superstitious like that, and an)rway, 
I am sure the Powers that be—Destiny, or whatever 
you like to call it—are too great and splendid to stoop 
to punishing a little thing like that! Why, it would be 
like a big boy calling out to the little boy who dared 
to stand up to him—‘You wait, my son! You’re 
growing much too cock-sure of yourself, but won’t I 
pitch into you afterwards!’ ” 

Deirdre laughed a little. 

“Wasn’t it Swinburne who wrote ‘Fate is a sea with¬ 
out shore’? That’s exactly what I feel—as if I’m 
battling all alone in a stormy sea, and that any minute 
I may sink. Dahlia, if Guy doesn’t go away soon I—I, 
the last wave of all will swamp me.” 

Dahlia looked at her with puckered brow. 

“My dear-” she began helplessly, and then her 



312 


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quick ear heard footsteps approaching outside along 
the corridor. “The footman’s coming to clear the tea,” 
she said hastily. “We’ll go on talking about that 
afterwards.” 

When Blain threw open the wide gilded doors and 
advanced with cat-like noiselessness towards the tea 
table, he found her ladyship and Mrs. Wycome sitting 
discussing in animated tones the art of the Russian 
Ballet. 


II 

Guy Wyndham never quite forgot the picture that 
Deirdre made when he called for her that night. 

She wore cloth of silver, wonderfully draped, with 
a thin, narrow fish train. Low on her forehead, was a 
pointed pearl bandeau and she carried a large jade- 
green feather fan. She was pale, but her mouth was 
vivid, and the green eyes glittering between their 
dark lashes. She seemed to Guy to be forcing her 
gaiety, even laughing with an effort. 

“Do you like this dress?” she asked lightly. “I 
put it on specially for you!” 

“I love it!” he said very low, touching the shim¬ 
mering stuff with a gentle finger. As he wrapped the 
jade-green velvet cloak round her, his hand touched 
her arm. “Why, you’re cold!” he said sharply. “Cold 
as ice! Will this thing be enough? Shall I get you 
a fur or something?” 

Deirdre shook her head. 

“No, thanks—I’m not really cold. Shall we go?” 


STRAWS 


313 


Together they passed through the big marble-paved 
hall, where Littlejohn waited like a dignified shadow 
to speed them on their way. It had stopped rain¬ 
ing now, and a little breeze was drying the wet 
streets. 

Deirdre, narrow train over one arm, went daintily 
down the steps, her pointed silver, shoes reflected in 
the glistening pavement, to where the chauffeur stood 
waiting at the door of the Rolls. She sank back 
against the cushions with a little sigh, Guy got in after 
her, the chauffeur shut the door, and the big car 
glided away from the kerb, smooth and noiseless. 

All the way there Deirdre was laughing and talking, 
her eyes shining, mouth curving. Guy watched her 
with a touch of anxiety. Was it his imagination, or 
was there something tense and vibrant underlying all 
the gaiety? He noticed that while she talked she was 
restlessly turning and returning the big, square emerald 
on her slender fingers. Now and again she relapsed 
into a brooding silence, only to snatch up the tinsel 
domino of Laughter again desperately, and drag it 
over her thoughts. 

The Savoy—lights—soft carpets—music—^beautiful 
dresses. Deirdre felt an overwhelming rush of sick 
dread as she passed through the big doors. Here were 
people to face—people who Dahlia had said would 
stare, and whisper, and laugh. With her usual superb 
courage she steeled herself to meet the gaze of curious 
eyes, to run the gauntlet of public opinion. 

With her head held a little higher than usual, a 
slim figure in her shimmering silver gown, she entered 


314 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


the room with Guy. As they passed the tables she 
was aware that people stopped their conversation to 
stare at them. Before this afternoon, if this had 
happened she would have taken no notice, for she 
knew, indifferently, that she was beautiful, and that 
people stared at her a good deal. And Guy was an 
unusually decorative escort—^besides, was not there 
the halo of fame round his handsome head? Ample 
causes for staring. 

But to-night for the first time she was aware of 
raised eye-brows and significant smiles, of a little 
ripple of conversation that broke out after they had 
passed, like waves meeting again after being cleft by 
a boat. Sick at heart, but outwardly composed, she 
made her slow way to their table. She looked at them 
all as long ago she had looked at her mother^s maid— 
with narrowed eyes, veiled and inscrutable, with a little 
smile, the perfection of suave insolence, hovering 
round her lips. In all her life she had never looked so 
beautiful. A little ripple ran round the crowded room, 
like the wind over a bed of daffodils. They sat down 
at their table, hovered round by an obsequious waiter. 
The orchestra was playing the Fantasia from Verdi’s 
“II Trovatore.” Deirdre felt a little sick and faint, and 
because of this faintness she rallied herself to be more 
brilliant, to laugh and chat as if she had not a care in 
the world. Even while her heart was crying “Beasts 
—^beasts!” her lips were smiling. 

Guy watched her admiringly, and a little anxiously. 
He noticed that she ate practically nothing, and that 
her hands were never still, but fluttering like butter- 


STRAWS 


315 


flies, twisting the big emerald, stroking the feathers of 
her fan. They were the only signs of inward turmoil, 
those nervous, fluttering hands. Otherwise she kept 
herself in wonderful control. 

Guy exerted himself to be amusing. 

If Deirdre had not been so worried she would have 
been genuinely amused by his gay nonsense, but now 
she listened with an abstracted smile. Looking at 
him she thought, with a little pang of misery, that he 
was looking more than usually good-looking to-night. 
He seemed very young, very boyish, very gay. And 
to-night she would have to send him away—for Terry’s 
sake. 

An insane anger against Terry flared up in her, and 
as quickly died down. She put out her hand, for her 
wine-glass, and lifted it perfectly steady to her lips. 
Somehow the nightmare meal was over, and Deirdre 
found herself, in a sort of stupor, threading her way 
again through the tables, Guy following. Again she 
was aware of the little ripple of whispers that followed 
her—again she looked at them all with a little insolent 
half-smile, bowing now and then to someone she 
knew. 

At a table near the door was a party of four who 
had not been there long. One of the four was Mrs. 
Vauxall—Mrs. Vauxall in a clinging grey dress with a 
long rope of fine pearls round her wrinkled neck. 
She regarded Deirdre through uplifted lorgnettes with 
a sort of bleak stare. Deirdre stared back, through 
drooping lashes, suavely, with a delicate insolence. 
Then, smiling a little, she passed on. She felt rather 


3i6 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


than saw, Mrs. Vauxall turn and say something to a 
fat woman in a black dress and unbelievable diamonds, 
her thin scarlet mouth sneering. With her head high, 
serene, and smiling, Deirdre passed out. 

After coffee and liqueurs in the lounge they went 
on to the theatre. Through the whole thing Deirdre 
sat in a dazed dream, watching with unseeing eyes the 
gyrations of a chiffon-clad chorus, listening mechan¬ 
ically to the songs. All the time her thoughts were 
busily working, going round and round, round and 
round in objectless little circles. Guy would go away 
—She wondered if she would ever see him again. 
Probably not. Life would be funny without Guy, an 
empty thing, devoid of all happiness. She looked 
sideways at him once—^his profile looked sharply white 
in the dim light. 

“I must remember his face,” she thought with a 
little choking sensation in her throat. ‘‘He's going 
away. I must have a clear picture of him in my brain 

so that I can—remember,—sometimes-” 

Remember—what a ghastly word! It sounded as 
if Guy was dead. He was going to be dead to her, 
anyway. Guy—dead. She put her hand up to her 
throat—she felt as if she could not breathe. Guy— 
with his splendid youth, his warmly throbbing life, 
his audacious eyes. She would never see him again. 
It would seem as if she were dead herself. 

Someone was singing on the stage. 

“Mexican Maxine met me on the Matterhorn-” 

A mist seemed to have come over her eyes—^the 
brilliantly lighted stage became a multi-coloured blur. 




STRAWS 


317 


What a noise the orchestra was making! It seemed 
as if a tumult of cracked discords was crashing over 
her head. 

The theatre was very hot—^the girl next to her had 
on Mysterieuse scent—a little too much, Deirdre 
thought—it overpowered her in a heavy wave of per¬ 
fume. There was a clock ticking somewhere—^tick, tick, 
tick—like blows on an anvil. It was ticking in her 
brain—she wanted to stop it, but she could not. 

Tick, tick, tick- 

“Mexican Maxine met me on the Matterhorn-” 

Oh, Heavens, that orchestra!- 

Tick, tick, tick, tick . . . Would no one stop it? 
. . . Mysterieuse scent . . . overpowering . . . tick, 
tick, tick . . . Guy’s hand beneath her arm . . . She 
was somehow walking out of the theatre . . . people 
staring curiously . . . down a long carpeted corridor 
. . . into the foyer of the theatre. 

Guy’s voice—“Get me a taxi, please”—a bell ring¬ 
ing—a taxi came up grinding and snorting—it smelt 
musty inside—the door slammed—the commissionaire 
—“Where to, sir?”—“57, Clement Street, quickly”— 
the chink of coins—“Thank you. Sir”—then silence, 
blessedly, soothing silence. 

It came stealing over her like cool, refreshing water. 
The ticking had miraculously ceased. They were 
swinging away into the night—the cool air was blow¬ 
ing in one of the windows, fanning the heavy hair on 
her forehead. Now and again the flickering golden 
haze of a street lamp stabbed the gloom, like shining 
hair straying over a dim mauve pillow. 





318 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Into the night, and on, 

The strength and splendour of our purpose swings, 

The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone-—” 

She lay back in her corner with shut eyes- 

“The strength and splendour of our purpose-” 

She would have to be strong—^but then Love was 
Strength. Love never faltered, but strode on in all 
its splendour and pain- 

She said suddenly: 

“Guyr 

He turned, and smiled at her quickly. 

“Do you feel better. Dear?’' 

“Yes, thanks—much. It was so hot in that theatre, 
and I—felt all of a dither, to quote Olivia! But, Guy, 
it is too bad of me! Why, the thing wasn’t half over!” 

“Oh, but it was awful rot, don’t you think?” he 
asked boyishly. “To tell you the truth, I was bored to 
death, and when I turned and saw you looking white 
and shaky, I bounded to my feet, plucked you out of 
your stall, and fairly dragged you out of the theatre. 
Quite a sensation! I believe some of them thought it 
was sort of a minor diversion put on by the manage¬ 
ment ! They stopped listening to ‘Mexican Maxine’ to 
watch us!” 

Deirdre forced a smile. She could not find it in 
her heart to make him unhappy that night. She sud¬ 
denly felt older than he was—years and years older. 
She felt, as she had told Dahlia, that something in her 
had withered and died, that the faintest bloom was off 
the glorious splendour of her youth. 





STRAWS 


319 


The taxi was rumbling along by the Park—in a few 
minutes they would be home. She could not tell him 
to-night—it was too late—she was tired—she had not 
the courage at the moment. 

“Fve got something to tell you, Guy dear,'’ she said 
slowly. “But I can’t to-night. It’s important. I— 
T‘11 write you a letter and send someone round with it 
in the morning so that you’ll get it first thing-” 

The boy looked at her a little anxiously. 

“Is—^is there anything wrong, Deirdre?’’ 

She did not answer for a moment—she was thinking 
that in the musty interior of the cab lingered the 
faintest fragrance of Peau d’Espagne, the rustle of 
silken skirts, the ghostly tap of little high-heeled silver 
shoes, the memory of lips and laughter, murmurous 
sighs, kisses, and perhaps tears. The place seemed 
haunted by the plaintive wraiths of the people who 
had sat in its dingy dimness, as now she was sitting 
in her silvery gown. After them would come—whom? 
She roused herself to say with a smile- 

“No, there’s—nothing wrong—I’ll explain in my 
letter.” 

She looked at him bravely. The fleeting flicker of a 
street lamp showed them each other’s faces for a brief 
moment, and then again the warm dimness. But Deir¬ 
dre’s eyes had flooded with uncontrollable tears. She 
tried to keep her voice steady. 

“We’re in Clement Street,” she said quietly. “We 
shall be home in a minute, Guy—dear, dear Guy— 
we’ve never kissed each other in our lives. Will you 
kiss me once—just once—so that I can remember?” 




320 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


They were very close together in the shadows. 
Deirdre could feel the warmth, the throbbing, leaping 
life of him. It was like a flame around her—a splendid 
flame. 

There was a little tense silence—then they put their 
arms round each other and kissed as children do. For 
a fleeting second they stayed like that—the taxi was 
slowing down with a horrid grinding noise. Deirdre’s 
hands suddenly dropped in her lap. 

“We’re home,” she said in a curiously flat, colour¬ 
less voice. 

Guy leant forward, looking at her face. 

“Why, you’re crying T he said sharply. “Darling 
darling—you’re crying-!” 

“Hush!” she whispered hastily. “The man’s just 
going to open the door. I—I—it’s all right-” 

She dabbed at her eyes with a minute square of cam¬ 
bric and lace. The taximan flung open the door— 
Guy got out and gave Deirdre his hand. While he 
paid the man she stood waiting on the steps, a slim 
flgure wrapped in her jade-green cloak. The taxi 
rattled away, and he came over to her. 

“I’m coming in-” he said quietly. 

“Not—not to-night, Guy-” 

“I’m coming in,” he repeated firmly. “I want to 
know why you were crying—you must tell me, 
Deirdre.” 

He looked up at her with shining eyes, and obstinate 
lips. He seemed a very handsome and furious boy, 
flushed with absurd rage at the sight of her tears. She 
had never loved him more than at that moment, and 






STRAWS 


321 


because of this she wanted him to go away, and leave 
her alone to fight it out by herself. 

“Fll explain everything in my letter. Fm tired to¬ 
night.” 

His anger died as suddenly as it had flooded him. 

“Fm sorry, Dear,” he said penitently. “What a 
fool I am! Good night, Deirdre, and thank you 
awfully for coming.” 

“Good night,” she said softly. “Good night.” 

She looked at him for a minute with a little quiver¬ 
ing smile. For a moment her soft slenderness was 
silhouetted athwart the light as she opened the door. 
Then darkness again—she was gone. 

The boy stood for some minutes afterwards staring 
after her, until the suspicious stare of a passing police¬ 
man roused him, and he walked leisurely homewards, 
his mind vaguely troubled. . . . 

That night in her black and gold room, Deirdre sat 
writing a letter. She wrote slowly and deliberately, as 
if choosing her words with care. 

The letter ended like this: 

“So you see, dear, that is all we can do—^the least 
we can do for Terry’s sake and for our own sakes. 
We shall just have to keep out of each other’s lives— 
I dare say it won’t seem so terribly hard after a while— 
and when we meet again, years and years on, all the 
pain and longing will have faded into a blur, like the 
memory of a bad dream. I shall not see you again. 
Don’t tell me where you are going, or I shall write to 
you, and I mustn^t. 

“My darling, I shall never forget you—never in all 


322 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


my life, even if I wanted to. I want you to remember 
also, and yet I don’t, because I hope you are going to 
be happy again, just as if I had never come into your 
life- 

“I shall try and be happy too, in making Terry 
happy. He is so fine and splendid, and I am so ter¬ 
ribly unworthy of him. I couldn’t bear it if I thought 
he was unhappy. He mustn’t even guess anything. 

“Good-bye, Guy. When I think of you later on it 
wdll be as the boy in Gilly’s Wood—the boy who said 
'Would you come if you heard me calling?’ But the 
girl who said ‘You know I would’—I mustn’t think 
of her. She’s dead now—lost long, long ago. 

“I’m prolonging this letter, just as if you were here 
talking to me, and I can’t let you go. Now you know 
why I was crying, and I suppose I oughtn’t to be cry¬ 
ing, because we’ll meet again some day—somewhere 


“Oh, but I hate living without you—hate, hate, hate 
it! It’s not like living—it’s just as if I was dead. 
While I’m walking, and talking, and eating the soul of 

me will be all dead and lifeless. I want you-” 

After reading this over, she signed her name, and 
then sat for a very long time, staring in front of her 
with dry, expressionless eyes. . . . 

Ill 

Three days later, the day before Terence’s arrival 
home, Deirdre Liscarney stood by the window of her 
sitting-room and looked out at the street beneath. It 




STRAWS 


323 


was a hot July afternoon. The sky was an intense, 
metallic blue over the white house-tops. Taxis rattled 
past the house, a few pedestrians, braving the intense 
heat of the afternoon, sauntered along, keeping in the 
shade as much as they could. The heat made people 
drowsy—even the roar of distant traffic had blended to 
a dull, somnolent hum. 

Inside, the room was cool and pleasant. Roses 
everywhere, filling Wedgewood bowls, overflowing a 
big silver goblet. The Sealyham lay on the low couch, 
paws stretched out—he did not like hot weather. 
Deirdre herself looked ill. Her face seemed white and 
somehow pinched, and there were faint lilac smudges 
beneath her eyes. She wore a dress of the faintest 
orchid mauve organdi, the skirt spreading like the 
petals of a giant flower. She seemed restless and irri¬ 
table, fidgeting with her dress, her hair, tapping on the 
window-pane. When the Sealyham grunted and 
stirred in his sleep she started and looked round 
sharply. After a bit she left the window, and sat down 
by her desk, playing with a quill pen. 

The door was ajar, and in the drawing-room down 
the corridor, Olivia started playing the Sonata Pathe- 
tique. Deirdre listened dully to the sonorous opening 
chords. Olivia played it well, with fire and pas¬ 
sion and a hint of restless longing. Deirdre was 
vaguely stirred by it. She turned her head and looked 
at a photo on her desk. It was a photo of Guy. The 
audacious dark eyes smiled at her, although the sen¬ 
sitive mouth was for once serious. She looked at it 
for some minutes, noting with subconscious pleasure 


324 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


the way his hair grew, the unconsciously beautiful poise 
of head and neck. 

“I mustn’t!” she said aloud, in a dull flat voice. 
“I ought to burn that photo, but I—I can't I It’s all I 
have left-” 

Olivia had come down the long chromatic run, and 
begun the second movement, increasing pace and cres¬ 
cendo as she went along. 

Three days—was it only three days ago since their 
last meeting? It seemed like weeks—years—eternity. 
And to-morrow Terence was coming home. To-mor¬ 
row she would have to take up the old ways again, 
to appear happy when her heart was breaking, to 
face the world serene and smiling and alone. 

Deirdre heard a voice which she did not recognize 
as her own say suddenly, brokenly—“I can’t bear it! 
I can’t— can't bear it!” 

She looked again at the photo. The gay eyes seemed 
to be conveying a message to her- 

“Courage—for a little while longer. Play up—for 
Terry’s sake. Think of Terry —courage!” 

She tried to think of Terry. There was a photo of 
him opposite Guy’s. The frank eyes smiled straight 
into hers—his mouth was puckered at the corners into 
wrinkles of laughter. So clean-run and charmingly in¬ 
genuous, this Terence Liscarney. She suddenly saw 
how fine he was in his love, his great generosity, his 
perfect trust in her. Guy had said that he was worth 
fighting for. He was right. “Terry—think only of 
Terry!” said Guy’s clear eyes. “Go on— fight —for 
Terry’s sake!” 




STRAWS 


325 

“Oh, but it’s hard!” said Deirdre to the photo on her 
desk. “It’s hard!” 

She got up suddenly, pushing back her chair with 
a jarring, scraping noise. She crossed over to the 
Venetian mirror which hung above the mantelpiece, 
and looked at herself steadily, noting the shadows be¬ 
neath her eyes, the pallor of her cheeks. The bloom 
of her seemed to have been brushed off in the short 
space of three days. 

Deirdre laughed a little bitterly. “You look old,” 
she told the reflection in the Venetian mirror. “Old 
and ugly. Three little days have made a wreck of you. 
What will a lifetime do?” 

Somewhere in the house a door banged sharply. 
She started and winced, as if under a blow. 

Olivia had returned to the first movement of the 
Pathetique—the muffled chords sounded like someone 
sighing. Deirdre wished that she would stop playing 
—it stirred her to a vague, fierce longing. . . . 

Guy—Terence—herself—three little straws swirling 
on the shoreless sea of Fate, sucked down by the cur¬ 
rent of Destiny, half submerged in the foaming whirl¬ 
pool of Love. Rebellion stirred in her suddenly. Why 
should it be they whom the sea of fate singled out for 
its victims? Why not another three? Why should it 
be Terence, who had never hurt a soul in his life, Guy, 
who seemed made for happiness, herself—^what had 
she done to merit this unhappiness ? Three little 
straws, swirling and tossing, helpless, at the mercy of 
the dark flood on which they rode, the playthings of a 
grim, inscrutable Power, borne onwards to—what? 


326 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Surely there must be some haven even in that storm- 
tossed sea—some quiet backwater where battered vic¬ 
tims of the tempest might come safely to rest. * If not, 
the cruel waves would suck the poor straws under to 
inevitable destruction. . . . 

Deirdre felt a sudden slackening weakness of spirit 
and body. Of what avail was it to fight any longer 
against such odds? Three straws, helplessly drifting, 
swamped by the waves of Fate—no anchorage, no 
port—nothing. Why fight any longer? Why battle 
against the waves which, sooner or later, would swamp 
them? It was only a futile waste of strength and 
courage. It would be so easy to give in. . . . 

“Courage!” was the message of Guy’s laughing eyes. 
“Don’t give in—think of Terry— fight!” 

“I can’t!” said Deirdre aloud, half sobbing. “I 
can’t any longer. I want you—I love you. Don’t ask 
me to be brave—I can’t— can't bear it!” 

It would be easy to give in. She would go to Guy 
now—at once—make him take her away. Her hat 
was lying on a chair—she snatched it up and pinned it 
hastily on. 

Three straws on the sea of Fate . . . She would 
go to Guy. On her way to the door she stopped short. 
Her eyes had met the pictured eyes of Terence 
Liscarney. . . . 

Those eyes conveyed no message. They just smiled 
into hers—straight into hers. Love was in them—an 
unquestioning, unselfish love—and above all things, a 
great trust. And she had been about to break that 
trust, and drag that love through the mud. 


STRAWS 


327 


Deirdre pulled off her hat with shaking fingers. 
She got down on her knees by the table and said to the 
photo of Terence: 

“How beastly of me—how cowardly and mean! 
Tm sorry. Terry dear—Fm sorry.” 

There was the sharp report of a bursting tyre 
from the street beneath. Deirdre started, and barely 
stifled the cry which rose to her lips. “Nerves,” 
she said aloud. “Fancy me being nervous! How 
funny-” 

She got up and walked restlessly round the room, 
picking up a slim volume of poems bound in green 
suede, putting it down again, adjusting a fold in the 
old gold satin curtains, fidgeting with a tiny enamel 
snuff-box on the mantelpiece. 

“I must go away,” she said suddenly. “Right away 
from London—somewhere where I can rest. This 
house is killing me. I want a month’s holiday, all 
alone, before I take up the old life again. Where 
can I go, I wonder ? Perhaps Dahlia would know of a 
place. Fll phone her now, I think.” 

She went to the telephone which stood on her desk, 
ingeniously hidden beneath the spreading satin skirts 
of a dainty, powdered-curled china demoiselle. 

After wrestling with Exchange for some minutes, 
she got through to Dahlia. 

“That you. Dahlia ? . . . Halloa! . . . It’s Deirdre 
speaking—Look here. I’m going away for a month or 
so. Can you recommend a place to go to?” 

Dahlia’s pleasant drawling voice—one of the very 
few that do not suffer from the metallic medium of 



328 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


the telephone—came back to her after a slight 
hesitation. 

“Well, darling, it all depends what sort of place you 
want—gay or otherwise?” 

“Oh, otherwise—decidedly otherwise. Somewhere 
in the heart of lovely country—near the sea, perhaps. 
1 don’t know. Anyway somewhere where I can lead 
a vegetable marrow existence—just basking and lazing 
away the days.” 

After another pause, Dahlia said jubilantly: 

“Got it! Why not try Purse Pomeroy?” 

“Purse zvhatf” 

“Purse Pomeroy. Funny, isn’t it? South Devon 
—little fishing village—haunt of artists, but they’re 
quite harmless. I took Porzie there last Summer, and 
absolutely loved it. Glorious scenery—all one does 
there is sleep, and eat enormously, and bathe, and 
ramble over the moors, and go mackerel fishing, and 
sleep again-” 

“Exactly the place I want! How lovely! Where 
did you stay. Dahlia ?” 

“Oh, there’s an hotel of a nondescript sort, but I 
stayed at a cottage on the cliffs—gorgeous view—dear 
little place. A dear old soul called Mrs. Dean has it 
—she cooks awfully well and all that. I am sure that 
would suit you, Deirdre, and I don’t expect she’s got 
anyone there.” 

“Dahlia, you angel! What’s her address?” 

“Mrs. Dean—Cliff Cottage—Purse Pomeroy— 
South Devon. Got it? I should write at once-” 

“I will—to-night. It sounds the most ideal place. 



STRAWS 


329 


Thank you awfully. How is Gervase? I saw his 
cartoon of the Prime Minister in the Sketch —simply 
splendid! And Porzie ?” 

“Porzie is in the best of health and spirits. This 
morning he played Red Indians, and tried to scalp the 
kitten. Great opportunity for me to lecture on ‘kind¬ 
ness to animals’! But he doesn’t care, bless him.” 

A little pause, then Dahlia said hesitatingly: 

“Darling, how are you getting on?” 

“Badly, I make a poor hero, Dahlia.” 

“We all do when it comes to the point, I think.” 

“I nearly threw my cap over the windmill this after- 
lioon with a vengeance!” 

“Deirdre! Oh, darling, do be careful! Please, 
please don’t do anything rash, for all your sakes! 
You’ll only be unhappy afterwards-” 

“Don’t be anxious, Dahlia dear. I’m quite sane 
now. And after this holiday I’ll be like a giant re¬ 
freshed. I’m going all alone to think things out. 
Good-bye, darling.” 

“Good-bye, Deirdre—bless you-” 

IV 

The next day Terence came home. He looked very 
brown, very tall and fit. Quite openly he was amazed 
and rather pathetically delighted at the warmth and 
tenderness of Deirdre’s welcome. She took an un¬ 
wonted interest in everything he had to tell her about 
the estate; the dinner that night consisted of all his 
favourite dishes, and he caught her looking at him, not 
once but several times, with eyes which were rather 




330 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


wistful. Terence was in the seventh heaven of delight. 
Every time that Deirdre met the glance of his af¬ 
fectionate blue eyes, she felt her courage stiffen. Guy 
had been right—Terence was worth fighting for. 

That night, while Olivia was curled up on the sofa 
with a box of chocolates and Under Two Flags, and 
Terry was holding forth upon the state of the crops, 
a land dispute, and partridges, Deirdre managed deftly 
to slip in her idea of going away for a month or so. 

“Of course,” said Terence. “We’re going to Deau¬ 
ville as usual.” 

“Terence, would you mind if I went alone?” 

“Alone to Deauville?” 

“No, not to Deauville. I want to go to a place 
Dahlia recommended in Devon—Purse Pomeroy--” 

“Very well,” said Terence, puzzled but amiable. 
“But what’s the idea?” 

“I—I haven’t been very well lately—my nerves are 
all jumpy. I want to get right away and laze all by 
myself. It will be a rest cure for me-” 

“And what about the children?” 

“Chris Mallory’s people are very anxious to have 
Livvy for a month at their place in Yorkshire, so I 
shall let her go. .Howard is going away to Brittany 
v/ith three college friends of his. Mother wants Roly 

to go over to Mentone for his holidays- So that 

disposes of them! But what about you, Terry?” 

“I think I shall go to Deauville with the Wycomes 
—I know they are going. I don’t really like letting 
you go, but I suppose that Parker will look after you 
all right-” 




STRAWS 


331 


'T am not taking Parker-” said Deirdre serenely. 

“She is going to have a holiday with her sister-in-law 
at Shoreham.” 

“But are you going alone?” 

“Except for Samiwell!” 

Terence appealed to Olivia. 

“Do you hear that? This girl wants to go gadding 
off by herself 1’^ 

Olivia looked up crossly, flicking two large tears off 
her lashes. 

“I w-wish you’d leave me alone! Poor d-darling 
Cigarette is just dying, and you come butting in with 
your bally questions! What’s that? Oh, I don’t care 
if she goes to C-colney Hatch as long as you don’t 
talk to me!” 

Terence grinned, and turned back again to his wife. 

“Well, I suppose it will be all right! What’s the 
name of the place, d’you say?” 

“Purse Pomeroy—Dahlia has been there and loved 
it. Now let’s arrange details.” 

They arranged the date of Deirdre’s departure— 
(providing Mrs. Dean could take her)—and other 
matters, until they went to bed. Only then did Terence 
remember to ask the question that Deirdre dreaded: 

“By the way, how’s old Jingle getting on?” 

Deirdre managed to say fairly naturally: 

“He’s very well, but he has gone away for a month 
or two.” 

“To rest after all this writing, eh? Oh well, he 
deserves a good holiday. Gone to Deauville or 
where?” 



332 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“I really don’t know,” said Deirdre carelessly. Look' 
ing at Terry, she wondered what he would say if 
he knew the pain his innocent query had given her. 
Dear Terry, always so tenderly careful of her, and 
now, unawares, dealing her dagger-thrust after dagger- 
thrust of misery!-- 

Mrs. Dean’s letter came in a few days, saying that 
her rooms were empty and that she would be very 
pleased to take the young lady. 

Deirdre sent her a wire to say that she was arriving 
next day, arranged with the Mallorys about Olivia, 
wrote to her mother and Roly, and with great satis¬ 
faction labelled her trunks to “Purse Pomeroy—via 
Paddington.” Mr. Weller was also in a state of much 
excitement. He had seen Parker pack many cotton 
frocks, a bathing suit, and his Beloved’s golfing 
brogues, so he rightly conjectured that they were to 
leave the Town of Many Pavements, and seek “fresh 
woods and pastures new.” This, of course, meant 
going in a train, which rocked and bumped and made 
a fellow’s inside feel as if it were sinking into his 
paws, but what lay at the other end of the journey 
quite made up for it. Grass! and lanes! 1 and 
rabbits! ! ! 

Therefore, at ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, 
the‘Rolls slid up to Paddington in time for the Kings- 
bridge train, and discharged Deirdre, an excited Mr. 
Weller under one arm, Terence, off to Deauville in 
two days, Olivia, leaving for Yorkshire the next morn¬ 
ing, and a very large trunk, labelled “To Purse Pome¬ 
roy.” While the luggage was being put in a van, and 



STRAWS 


333 


Olivia wandered down the long train, Deirdre and Ter¬ 
ence said good-bye. 

“This is going to be a real rest-cure,” she said. 
“So don’t write to me, or expect me to write to you! 
I am just going to laze, and grow very, very fat!” 

“Not even a postcard now and then?” 

“Not even a postcard!” She looked up into his blue 
eyes. “Will you miss me, Terence?” 

“Miss you!” He tried to say how much he loved 
her, what a dreary place the world was without her, 
and could manage to stammer like an ardent inartic¬ 
ulate schoolboy. “Oh, darling—I—I if you 
knew-” 

Quickly Deidre smiled at him. 

“I do know, Terry dear. But I’ll be back soon— 
very soon, and try to make you—happier than you 
ever were before. Good-bye, Terry.” 

People were taking their seats—Deirdre and Mr. 
Weller got in—Olivia climbed up for a last hug—the 
guard waved his flag, and slowly the long train glided 
out of the station. Deirdre waved her hand to Ter¬ 
ence, her lips smiling, but an odd expression in her 
eyes. 

Terence stood stock still, not waving, but watching 
until he saw the last of that small, fluttering hand, 
those smiling lips. Then he said strangely: 

“I’ve the queerest feeling that—that I’ve lost Deir¬ 
dre ! I wish I hadn’t let her go alone—ass that I am!” 

Olivia looked at him curiously. He looked rather 
pale, and his blue eyes were serious. 

“Yes, you certainly are rather an ass,” she said 



334 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


briskly, piloting him towards the Rolls. “Now donH 
YOU go and get m-morbid ideas, Terry. ‘Lost Deir- 
dre,’ indeed! You talk as if she was off to Honolulu 
instead of D-d-devon!” 

Terence did not seem to hear her. 


CHAPTER XII 


BELONGING 

I 

Purse Pomeroy in the rain. . . . 

It drove in stinging, blinding sheets over the sea and 
the heather-clad hills. Round the little cottage on the 
cliff road the wind moaned and howled like a living 
thing. 

Deirdre stood at the window drumming restlessly 
on the pane. She had been indoors all day, and the 
narrow confines of the room were beginning to chafe 
her. The Sealyham was sitting on the window-seat 
watching the steady drip of rain that fell from a jut¬ 
ting cornice. 

A high cart jolted past, drawn by a glistening white 
horse, the driver huddled up on the seat like a mere 
bundle of wet oilskin. Deirdre watched it out of sight, 
then looked across the grey, tossing waters of the 
estuary to the heather and bracken-covered hills, run¬ 
ning right along the rocky coast, and .the massive rocky 
head of the Lion which guarded the mouth of the 
estuary. 

‘T think Fll go out,’’ she said aloud. 

She turned away to find Mrs. Dean. The warm clean 


335 


336 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


smell of hot tough-cakes and currant cake told her 
that it was baking day. She found Mrs. Dean just 
drawing out a tray of tempting, golden-brown tough- 
cakes, her round face red and shining. She welcomed 
Deirdre warmly. 

“Sit you down and have a warm tough-cake, Missie, 
du now. They’m rare good wi’ a slap o’ fresh butter.” 

Deirdre hesitated, looked at the tempting things 
and fell. Eating her tough-cake, she watched Mrs. 
Dean’s round knobby little figure bustling round the 
red bricked floored kitchen. 

“Isn’t this a rotten day, Mrs. Dean?” 

“Eh, dearie, well mun you say so! An’ yesterday 
such a fine day, wi’ th’ sunshine an’ arl-” 

“Mrs. Dean, I think I’m going out—up the Lion.” 

“Goin’ tu claime the Lion on a day like this? Eh, 
missie, yu’ll be blown down, for sure!” 

“Oh, no, I shan’t! It will be lovely up there, and 
I’ve got a good mackintosh and heavy brogues. I’ll 
be back to tea.” 

“Well, ah’ll have a hot bath for yu when you come 
home,” said Mrs. Dean comfortingly. “Yu’ll be 
drenched, ah dessay. An’ dry clothes laid out for you, 
dearie.” 

“Mrs. Dean, you’re an angel! Good-bye, and the 
tough-cake was delicious!” 

She went out of the kitchen on dancing feet, up the 
narrow stairs to her fresh little chintz-hung bedroom. 
Presently to Sam’s great excitement, she came down 
in her mackintosh, carrying a stick, with a little black 
velvet hat crushed down over her hair. 



BELONGING 


337 


*‘Wuff!” said Mr. Weller. She eyed him dubiously. 

“If you come you’ll get awfully wet and muddy, 
’cause you’ve got such short legs that your tummy 
almost scrapes the ground, and then I’ll have to get a 
tub of warm water in the scullery and bath you, and 
you’ll have to dry before the kitchen fire.” 

Mr. Weller, overlooking the slighting reference to 
certain portions of his anatomy, said “Wuff!” again 
eagerly. 

Deirdre laughed. 

“Oh well, come on!” she said. 

The Sealyham bounced off the window-seat and 
skurried after her, through the narrow little hall and 
out into the rain-drenched garden. Marguerites, sal¬ 
mon-pink gladioli, hollyhocks, and the big bush of 
pinky mauve hydrangeas by the gate, were all bowed 
down by the fierce rain. The wet gravel scrunched 
oozily beneath her feet. 

Once out in the road they set off at a brisk pace 
towards the village. To the left of the road were here 
c»rid there pretty houses, raised high above the road 
in beautiful gardens. Hydrangeas were everywhere, 
and fuchsias hung their wet scarlet and purple bells 
over the high grey walls. To the right was a low 
stone wall, beyond which the rocks shelved sheer down 
into the sea. Deirdre paused once, in spite of the buf¬ 
feting of rain and wind, to stand by this wall and look 
at the view before her. The sea was very rough, and 
huge waves dashed themselves on to the rocks beneath 
her in clouds of feathery spray. Across the heaving 
grey waters of the estuary were the bracken-covered 


338 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


slopes of hills, purple here and there with patches of 
sodden heather. There were no smooth golden sands in 
the little coves now, only big waves that broke with 
thunder and flying foam upon the towering, jagged 
grey rocks. The mouth of the estuary was guarded by 
two grim sentinels—on the right by the Mew Rock, 
wreathed in clinging drifts of mist, and the left by Lion 
head, lowering and massive against the pearl-grey sky. 
Beyond them, and the churning foam of the bar, was 
the open sea—a dreary expanse of dark greenish grey, 
until it merged on the horizon into the paleness of the 
sky. 

Deirdre stood listening, her mood oddly fitting in 
with the storm, to the shriek of the wind, the roaring 
thunder of the sea, and the weird, hoarse laughter of 
the gulls that wheeled and dipped over the grey cliffs. 
The rain stung her lips, lashed her eyelids. She 
laughed a little, and, calling Mr. Weller, who was pens¬ 
ively sampling the grass at the gate of Westlands, 
swung on down the road. After turning a sharp 
corner they came to the village. 

Purse Pomeroy was built on the side of a hill, 
sloping down to the harbour. The streets were all 
narrow, and linked up one with another by the means 
of flights of extraordinarily steep steps. The houses 
themselves were extremely quaint, built mostly of the 
grey stone one sees so much in Devon, against which 
the purple and scarlet of the habitual fuchsias looked 
very striking and artistic. 

The village street was the pride of the neighbour¬ 
hood. It consisted mainly of small shops and little 


BELONGING 


339 


grey houses, with the Marine Hotel towering proudly 
by the harbour steps. The street was absurdly narrow, 
so much so that it was almost impossible for two cars 
to pass each other unless one went on the pavement. 
The event of the day was when the ’bus that brought 
people from Kingsbridge Station came lumbering over 
the cobbles. This vehicle, reputed to be built on the 
exact model of the Ark, took up practically the whole 
of the street. 

One could be pretty sure that if the ’bus was lum¬ 
bering down the street, and an ordinary car came in 
the other direction, there would be quite a pithy little 
exhibition of repartee between the conductor and 
driver of the ’bus, and the chauffeur of the car, when 
each would refer epigrammatically to the rules of the 
road, wonder piously ‘‘Wot the Ottymobile Associa¬ 
tion was abaht to let a great ’ulk like you tike up orl 
the street,” and remark'delicately upon the construc¬ 
tion of each other’s physiognomy. 

On these occasions the whole of Purse Pomeroy 
turned out to watch and listen, offering consolation 
and advice to their particular favourites, or abuse to 
the Other side. It usually ended in a victory for the 
station ’bus. The other car would be forced to back 
down the street and up a side alley, where it waited 
while the pantechnicon wreathed in glory and petrol 
fumes, lumbered leisurely past, to draw up with a 
grinding groan before the majestic entrance of the 
Marine Hotel. 

To-day, however, this almost daily comedy was not 
in progress. The street was practically deserted, except 


340 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


for one or two damp-looking shoppers, who pattered 
among the puddles wielding large umbrellas, or dived 
in and out of the shops like startled rabbits. A tall, 
broad-shouldered young fisherman, in sou’-wester 
and rubber wading-boots up to his thighs, came up the 
steps that led down to the quay, and strode across 
the road to the tiny public-house. Deirdre looked after 
him appreciatively. She had only been there four days, 
but she had seen all sorts of splendid types among the 
men on the quay or in the fishing-^boats. This lad 
was a typical example, with his magnificent breadth of 
shoulder and length of limb. Deirdre thought reflect¬ 
ively that those must have been the sort of men who 
sailed with Drake and Frobisher and Hawkins West¬ 
ward Ho, and who sent the Spanish cur cringing home¬ 
ward with his tail between his legs. As she went down 
the slippery steps to the quay, she sang beneath her 
breath a snatch of triumphant song- 

“Pride of the West! What Devon hath kept 
Devon shall keep on tide or main; 

Call to the storm and drive them flying, 

Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!” 

Deirdre felt an absurd, warm little thrill of pride, as 
if Devon was her own county,—well, so it was! The 
spirit of Devon was the spirit of England, and England 
v/as hers! She walked, still humming, along the little 
jetty. 

The harbour on a sunny day was a charming picture, 
with the white sails of the yachts, the russet and scarlet 



BELONGING 


341 


sails of fishing-boats, reflected in the calm water. 
Even to-day, in the driving mist and rain, it had a 
certain beauty. All sorts of craft were moored there 
—tiny dinghies and skiffs, smart little launches, a great 
towering hulk in the background, a few beautiful 
yachts, glistening with spotless paint and bright 
brasses. The quaint little town, straggling up the hill¬ 
side, looked down upon the harbour, and on the other 
side of the estuary were the hills, green and purple 
with bracken and heather, or silver with oats and 
golden with corn. The only occupants of the jetty 
were the ferryman and a small yellow dog, who sat 
together under a sort of little corrugated iron shelter. 

The ferryman was long of limb and broad of 
shoulder, his face reddened by the wind’s buffeting, 
and tanned by the sun. He wore a dark blue jersey, 
a sou’-wester, and wading^boots up to the thighs. 
Little gold rings dangled from his ears, and a short, 
stubby, and evil black pipe was stuck in one corner of 
his mouth. His strong brown hands were very busy 
with the broken meshes of a net. 

The small yellow dog gazed at Deirdre and Mr. Wel¬ 
ler with one yellow eye, and then, antipathy in his 
bearing, turned once more to study the landscape. 

“Good afternoon,” said Deirdre. 

The ferryman put down the net, took out his pipe, 
and regarded her with gratified astonishment. 

“D’yu warnt t’ cross in the furry? Eh, Miss, ef 
yu ain’t the only pusson wot ’as come along tu-day!” 
He looked at her congratulatingly. “Th’ waater’s 
very rough. Miss. ’Orrible waves!” 


342 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Deirdre looked out at the tossing water, and laughed 
like a little girl. 

“I don’t mind—I like it rough! I’m going to climb 
the Lion.” 

The ferryman got up with a grunt, put the net 
aside, and clumped down the slimy steps of the little 
jetty to where the clumsy ferry lay heaving on the 
water. He put a leg over the edge, got in, and gave 
her his hard brown hand. 

“Sit down on th’ left o’ the furry, Missie, an’ then 
yu woan’t get s’ much o’ th’ waaves.” 

Deirdre obeyed him, holding Mr. Weller tightly in 
her arms. The little yellow dog sat on the quay, and 
watched them indifferently with his one topaz eye. 
The man pushed off from the quay with a few strong 
strokes of the pole, then bent and started the engine. 
The whole boat vibrated with its chugging—He seized 
the tiller, swung it round, and they were off. 

As they were crossing the estuary, the big waves 
caught them broadside on. They broke right over the 
boat, which lurched and rocked as if it were a canoe 
instead of a heavily built ferry-boat. The man at the 
tiller stood immovable, sucking at his stubby pipe. 
Mr. Weller disapproved of the whole thing. He wrig¬ 
gled in Deirdre’s arms, and was opening his mouth to 
protest shrilly when a big wave splashed up over them 
both, wetting Deirdre’s cheek and hair, and almost 
choking Mr. Weller. 

He began to wish that he had stayed at home watch¬ 
ing the rain drip from the cornice—Land again! 
Beautiful, slimy steps leading up out of this horrible. 


BELONGING 


343 


tossing ocean! The man stopped the engine, and as 
they floated in, the Sealyham wrenched himself free, 
and bounded over the narrow strip of water on to 
terra firma, just escaping slipping on the wet stone and 
hurtling into quite a foot of slimy water. 

Deirdre took out her purse, and instead of the usual 
penny, gave him half-a-crown. 

“It was worth it!” she laughed. “I simply loved the 
waves!” 

The ferryman blinked rapidly at the half-a-crown, 
put it into his pocket, and broke into a broad grin. 

“Thaank’ee, Missie, Tm shore! Yu be the first 
young laidy wot ’as said that she loved the waaves! 
Moast females ’ang on to the side o’ the furry, an’ 
’oiler when a waave comes over thim!” He helped 
her out carefully. “Did yu saay that yu was a-thinkin’ 
o’ climbin’ th’ Lion?” 

“Yes, I’m going to have a try at it!” 

“Waal, yu’ll be bloown down or drenched, f’ sutten!” 
said the Hopeful One cheerfully. “Mighty powerful 
breeze up th’ Lion I” 

Deirdre laughed at him. 

“Well, if I’m not blown down I shall be back again 
at about five. Will you be able to hear me if I call ?” 

“Oh, ay. I’ll ’ear you raight enough, Missie!” said 
the ferryman. “Goo’-day, Missie!” 

“Good-day,” she said, and paused in mounting the 
steep little path to the road to watch the ferry-boat 
racing back through the waves. 

Mr. Weller was waiting for her in the narrow little 
lane, having now completely regained his sang-froid. 


344 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Together they set off, swinging down the muddy path 
between the high banks. Beyond the left-hand bank 
was a steep hill, densely covered with green bracken. 
Beyond the right hedge were pine trees, and then the 
jagged grey cliffs, shelving down to the little coves 
and bays, where the sea was booming against the 
rocks. 

For some time they kept on down this narrow lane, 
then passing through a white gate, took a little foot¬ 
path that struck along the cliff, between seas of wet 
bracken and heather. They had passed the Bar now, 
and instead of the estuary there was the open sea, with 
the coastal hills stretching as far as the eye could 
see. 

Deirdre paused and looked back at the little village 
huddled on the opposite hills, and Cliff Cottage, like 
a minute toy house, in the distance. She stood still 
for some minutes. It was so unutterably alone up 
there. The seas of heather and glistening bracken, 
the jagged teeth of the cliffs against which the waves 
dashed their flying spray. All was silent except for 
the restless moaning of the Bar, and the strange, 
almost uncanny gurgling sigh that the sea made in 
a cave in the rocks. The sea-mews startled her for a 
moment with their hoarse, chuckling laughter. She 
remembered something that Mrs. Dean had said—that 
the gulls were the souls of drowned mariners, come 
back to the open spaces and tossing waters that they 
loved. She shivered a little. There was something 
weird and melancholy in their harsh cry. 

“Come on, Sam!” she called to Mr. Weller, who was 


BELONGING 


345 


sniffing a clump of mauve-starred wild geranium. 
“This is where we start to climb!” 

She struck off the little footpath, wading among the 
wet bracken, the sodden glory of the heather. Her 
face was wet and whipped to a warm rosiness, her lips 
were glistening, her hair, her eyes. She felt suddenly 
fey—as if the sting of the rain, the buffeting of wind, 
and the lonely beauty of the moor, had gone to her 
head like rare old wine. . . . 

“What’s left behind I may not find. 

The splendour and the pain; 

The splash of sun, the shouting wind, 

And the brave sting of rain, 

I may not meet again.” 

She found herself singing these words, in a sort of 
triumphant chant. 

“The brave sting of rain—the brave—sting—of— 
rain!” 

It changed to the lilting, rousing tune of- 

“Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!” 

Deirdre stopped singing to look round for Mr. 
Weller. 

“Sammy! Come on, Sam!” 

He was not to be seen. 

In a few seconds, however, with a grunt and a splut- 
' ter, he emerged from a jungle of bracken, shaking the 
wet from his coat. The Sealyham’s gameness was un¬ 
daunted, but his, legs, alas, were short. The dense 
bracken and heather met over his head like a primeval 
jungle. Deirdre burst out laughing. 



346 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Poor old man! Shall I carry you for a bit?’* 

Mr. Weller gave his answer by disappearing once 
more, with an ecstatic “Wuff!” into a positive sea 
of wine-scarlet heather. He was having the time of 
his life. Deirdre, too, was enjoying herself. The 
rain was in her eyes, and climbing was slow owing to 
the strong wind, but she wanted to sing, to dance with 
tossing arms and laughing mouth to the piping of the 
wind—faster and faster, a wild death dance, a mad 

Bacchanale- 

She began to sing again- 

“Battle and storm and the sea dog’s way! 

Drake from his long rest turned again, 

Victory lit thy steel with lightning, 

Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!” 

She was on the top of the Lion, standing on his 
massive, rocky head, looking down at the view beneath 
her- 

“Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!”- 

The sea looked grey and misty, with white horses 
riding the waves. Mist hung over the coastal hills and 
blotted out the looming shoulder of the Mew Rock. A 
long way off she could see Start Point, and the waves 
breaking with booming thunder in the little bay of 
Gara Rock. The brown sails of a fishing-boat moved 
slowly round the point—it looked like a dead leaf 

tossed on the water by a careless hand- 

“Devon, O Devon, in wind and rain!”- 

The rain drove into Deirdre’s face, almost blinding 








BELONGING 


347 


her, and she could hardly stand for the buffeting of 
the wind. The Sealyham was sitting on a small flat 
rock, the breeze lifting his ears in a comical way. 

Up on the Lion’s rocky head, it was all so lonely and 
grand. The rocks, the heather, the bracken, gave one 
the impression of having been there a very, very long 
time, under the sky that seemed so near,—since the 
beginning of all things it had crouched there with its 
face to the sea, while the centuries blended and blurred 
into the mezzotint that men call Time. . . . 

Very suddenly Deirdre thought of Guy. At that 
minute she wanted him desperately—wanted to feel 
his warm hand on hers, his life, his nearness. Every¬ 
thing was so old up here—so old, and cold, and lonely. 
She wanted Youth—and Guy was Youth. She spoke 
his name under her breath, as if miles away he would 
hear her, and come. 

‘Uuy. . . 

She heard the restless soughing and moaning of the 
sea, the hoarse screaming of the gulls. Then the Sealy¬ 
ham moved, and growled. 

Deirdre turned sharply. 

Standing with his back to a rock, looking at her, 
was Guy Wyndham. 

They stood for a minute staring, and then Deirdre 
took a little, uncertain, stumbling step forward- 

Suddenly their arms were about each other . . . 

II 

Then they stood looking at each other, entirely and 
blissfully oblivious of the rain and wind. 



348 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“How did you know I was here?” asked Deirdre 
suddenly. 

“I met Dahlia Wycome—she told me—only after a 
lot of argument and searching cross questions. I had 
to see you again, Deirdre. I knew that if I wrote you 
wouldn’t answer, so I just came. I—Fll go at once 
if you don’t want me.” 

Deirdre looked at him with miserable eyes. 

“You know I want you, but—oh, Guy, you shouldn’t 
have come! It only makes it harder for us both, and 
the outcome will be the same.” 

“I tried to keep away—on my word of honour I 
tried, after getting your letter. Then—oh, heavens! 
I couldn’t stick it any longer—it almost—killed me. I 
just had to see you once more. We parted so casually 
—you never told me that it was to be our last meet¬ 
ing. It was impossible to keep away any longer-” 

Deirdre noticed with incredible minuteness, while 
he was speaking, how he had changed in a week or 
two. He looked older, in some subtle way—^there were 
dark rings under his eyes—his whole face seemed to 
have sharpened and aged. Guy, the handsome, im¬ 
pulsive boy, had vanished, never fully to return in all 
his undimmed joy and ardour. In his place stood 
Guy, the man, welded and fashioned into shape on the 
anvil of suffering, passed through the fire and coming 
out proved and unscathed. 

Deirdre felt a vast tenderness as she looked at him. 
She said softly—“Guy, why did you come?” 

“I wanted to know if what you said was final. Must 
we never see each other again? Surely we can be 



BELONGING 


349 


friends, as we have always been? What disloyalty to 
Terry is there in that?” 

‘‘None, but the world will think there is. And if 
Terry heard anything, as he would be bound to do, it 
would hurt him so.” 

Guy flushed all over his dark-skinned face, and mut¬ 
tered something under his breath. 

“Yes, I know they’re beasts,” said Deirdre gently. 
“But there it is. Td burn my boats, and snap my 
fingers in the face of all the world, if it wasn’t for— 
Terence.” 

Guy said nothing—he was apparently ^ intently 
watching the brown-sailed fishing-boat as it vanished 
up the estuary—so Deirdre went on, a little quiver 
breaking up her voice, in spite of herself. 

“It’s very hard to be brave, I think, Guy. Harder 
still to be—unselfish.” 

Still Guy was silent. Deirdre set her teeth, forced 
her lips into steadiness, and managed to speak 
naturally. 

“Are you staying here ?” 

“Only for the night, at the Drake Arms.” 

“How did you know I was up on the Lion?” 

“I went to Cliff Cottage about ten minutes after 
you’d gone. Mrs. Dean told me where you were.” 

“You’ve been following me, then, all the way?” 

“Yes.” 

Guy suddenly wheeled round on her and held out his 
hand. 

“I’m going now, Deirdre.” 

“Going?” 


350 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“Yes—I—I can’t stick it any longer.” He tried to 
say something, failed, and without even a “Good-bye,” 
walking as if he was blind, started stumblingly to go 
down the hill. 

Deirdre watched him for a minute, dumbly. She 
saw him trip among the bracken, right himself, go 
blindly on. Mr. Weller leapt after him, barking 
with glee. He was going out of her life now—for 
ever. 

Deirdre felt sudden sick panic. She called sharply 
—‘ ‘ Guy! Guy—stop! ’ ’ 

She came running after him, clung to him, kissed 
him- 

“I can’t let you go—I can’t—can’t let you go!” 

She stood back and looked up at him with shining 
eyes. 

“Guy, let us take this month as our own! Don’t 
go back to London—stay here. We can be with each 
other all day—for one glorious month. Then at the 
end of it—you go to Venice—I go back to Terry. But 
we’ll have had our month together!” 

Guy shook his head. 

“It wouldn’t be fair to Terry.” 

“Oh!” said Deirdre impatiently. “Terry—Terry! 
How can it hurt him? He’ll never know. Besides, 
even if he did, he wouldn’t grudge us one little month. 
He’s going to have a lifetime of me—you’re going to 
have nothing. For this month I’m Deirdre Bellamy 
—you’re Guy Wyndham. We’re engaged to be 
married. There is no such person as Terence Lis- 
carney in the world—only you and me!” 



BELONGING 


351 


For a minute eagerness leapt into the boy’s eyes. 
But still he hesitated. 

‘The people down here know you’re married, 
though.” 

“They don’t!” said Deirdre triumphantly. She held 
up a ringless left hand. “I took my ring off—they 
all know me only as Miss Bellamy. I didn’t want 
them to know who I was.” 

“If people got to hear of it-” 

“They won’t—no one comes to unfashionable sleepy 
little Purse Pomeroy. There is no fear of that” She 
put her hands on his shoulders, and smiled up into his 
eyes. “Guy, dearest, let us take this largesse of the 
gods while we can. At the end of the month we say 
good-bye for ever. Let us have one happy memory to 
look back on afterwards. We’ve never been happy 
together, have we, Guy ?—only for that one little week 
in Gilly’s Wood. Let’s be happy together for once— 
do what we like, love as much as we like, and be 
happy—happy! It’s the only chance we’ll ever have 
again-” 

Guy hesitated no longer. . . . 

Mr. Weller sat watching them, stumpy forelegs well 
apart. He was thinking longingly of a warm fire—a 
saucerful of tea, perhaps—a tough-cake. . . . 

“Wuff I” said Sam plaintively. 

Guy started, and laughed. 

“Heavens, I clean forgot I Dear, do you know that 
it’s raining—pouring?” He touched her coat, her hair, 
her cheek. “Sweetheart, you’re drenched! Come on 
—let’s go home, and you shall ask me to tea.” 




352 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Hand in hand they passed down the hill. . . . 

Along the bracken-clothed cliffs again, and in the 
ferry racing over the tossing estuary. Side by side 
they went up the slippery steps into the deserted vil¬ 
lage street. The rain was gradually stopping, and a 
patch of blue sky was actually peeping out from be¬ 
neath a grey storm cloud, like a brave doublet under a 
ragged mantle. The earth smelt fresh and sweet 
after the rain—even the fuchsias and hydrangeas 
seemed to lift up their heads and take on a new lease 
of brilliant colour. A country cart rattled past, drawn 
by a sturdy little pony. The driver threw them a 
cheerful “Gude day! Lukes laike clearin’ cop, eh?” as 
he passed them. 

“Splendid people, Devon folk,” said Guy in a sud¬ 
den burst of praise. 

Just as they neared Cliff Cottage Deirdre spoke 
rather hesitatingly. 

“Guy, dear, I shall tell Mrs. Dean that you’re my 
fiance. Then it won’t seem strange if we go about 
together a lot. The etiquette in these places seems to 
be that you can go anywhere with the man you’re 
engaged to, with ‘puffect propriety’ as Hobbs would 
say. So, although I hate deceiving her, that’s what 
we’d better do.” 

And that is what they did. 

Mrs. Dean received the stranger with cordial sur¬ 
prise and many “did you evers?” and after divesting 
Guy of his soaking shoes and mackintosh, lending him 
a pair of her husband’s carpet slippers, sat them both 
down to a right royal tea, which included little golden- 


BELONGING 


353 


brown tough-cakes, thick cloudy amber moor honey, 
smelling of heather and clover, fragrant spice cake, a 
blue dish of raspberries, and a little brown bowl of 
thick yellow Devonshire cream. 

Their chairs were very close together—so close that 
their arms touched. Heaven seemed to be in the little 
room. The clock on the mantelshelf between the two 
simpering shepherdesses ticked in a deep guttural purn 
Outside a bird in the garden started to sing after the 
rain—a run or two, elfin clear, a delicate shake and 
trill, then one long, mellow, golden pipe, repeated 
several times over. On the tea-table was a bowl of 
large sweet peas, wine purple, flame pink, and a deep 
cream, stained and frilled with rose. They could hear 
the soughing of the sea, the distant screaming of gulls. 
Now and again a cart rattled past, or a motor slid with 
a squelchy purr along the muddy road- 

Heaven was in the little room, and all the rest of the 
world shut out. . . . 

And so began their month of happiness. 



CHAPTER XIII 


HAPPINESS 

I 

Happiness. . . . 

It is not many who can with truth lay claim to 
having run the whole wide gamut of this most fleeting 
emotion, but in that one golden month Deirdre and 
Guy tasted the cup of happiness down to its last dregs. 

That one golden month. . . . 

Afterwards Deirdre, looking back on it, thought that 
it had gone with incredible speed and yet seemed to 
embrace an eternity—a lifetime of Love and Youth and 
Laughter. They were happy, those two, laughing 
away their careless days. The question was—not what 
to do, but how they could manage to pack everything 
into the short time they had at Purse Pomeroy. 

Such days August gave them—days of lapis lazuli 
and gold, when the coastal hills, shimmering in a haze 
of heat, seemed on fire with the heather’s passionate 
flame, when hardly a ripple stirred the sparkling pea¬ 
cock blue surface of the sea, and not a breath of wind 
bellied the russet and scarlet sails of the fishing-smacks. 

Most of those days they lazed aw^ay, diving and 
floating and splashing about in the sunwarm water, 
354 


HAPPINESS 


355 


lying on the golden sand of the little coves “soaking 
in the sun,” and acquiring the golden tan that Deirdre 
was so proud of. 

One morning they got up early, and meeting each 
other in the cliif road, walked through the gold and 
blue of the early morning down to the ferry, got the 
little dinghy, and went mackereling. Deirdre wore a 
pair of breeches, pilfered from Howard, a boyish jer¬ 
sey with the sleeves rolled high above the elbow, and 
all her hair pushed up under an old felt hat. 

Guy had seen her in many beautiful dresses, but 
never in his life had he loved her more than in the 
garb of a boy. He loved every bit of her then—her 
strong, rounded young arms, faintly tanned, her nar¬ 
row feet in their sturdy brogues, the very audacious 
tilt of that old felt hat over her laughing eyes. 

The “boyish” side of Deirdre was much in evidence 
in those days. She it was who dived and raced with 
Guy, who climbed the rocks with him, jumping with a 
cat-like sureness from peak to peak in a fashion con¬ 
ducive to heart failure, who drove the little cream- 
coloured car along the narrow lanes at a reckless pace 
which called down showers of reproof and censure 
from Guy upon her head. 

Guy loved this side of Deirdre. She had never 
seemed so young as she did then—it might have been 
Olivia who swaggered about in her whipcord breeches 
and old Jersey, or ran barefoot over the sands in her 
short, straight gingham gowns. 

One day they hired two horses from a farmer— 
moor horses, wild, unbroken young things, and rode 


356 THE SHORELESS SEA 

them one morning early over the golf links. The 
course was crossed by low stone walls, like the fields 
in Ireland, and at these they set their horses, laughing 
and shouting like a couple of schoolboys. Deirdre was 
perfectly reckless—her horse was a nervy, bad-tem¬ 
pered grey, with a rolling eye and a wicked mouth, 
and several times Guy had his heart in his mouth, and 
he watched her take the wall like a bird, the hoofs of 
the grey not even stirring a loose stone. He felt an 
exquisite pride in her daring, and in the perfect way 
she handled the horse. How he loved the hoyden 
Deirdre, with her gay, clear laugh, her supple young 
strength! 

That one golden month. . . . 

II 

One day they walked to Cherrystone, a little village 
a few miles away. It was a glorious afternoon, in¬ 
tensely hot and windless, with the sea shimmering 
like a stretch of jewelled satin, and the sky a deep, 
cloudless delphinium blue. 

The lane they were following was typically Devon, 
narrow, and sunk between high banks. Presently it 
left off following the winding estuary up to Poole, and 
branched off between fields and woods, where an 
ancient finger-post, wreathed with the green ribands of 
ivy, pointed the traveller on to Cherrystone. As yet 
the hand of the hedge cutter had not shorn the flow¬ 
ing tresses of leaf and bloom that trailed the steep 
banks, and delicate traceries of purple vetch, yellow 
colt’s-foot, the flower of the wild strawberry, ladies’ 


HAPPINESS 


357 


lace, bright and blue borage, and mauve wild mint, 
warmly fragrant in the sunshine, made a brave show of 
colour and perfume. Here and there were patches of 
scarlet pimpernels and tiny speedwells, pink and white 
rest-harrow, smelling of sweet almonds, the gay tatters 
of ragged robin, scarlet and white campions, the 
orange-tipped gold of ladies’-slippers, and the tiny rosy 
star of wild geranium. All this pageant of <bloom was 
over-hung by showers of ferns, narrow shiny hart’s 
tongues, or the ordinary variety, and tall spires of fox¬ 
gloves, their rosy lavender bells speckled with golden 
brown markings. Above these nodding in the hedge, 
were festoons of honeysuckle, their rose spurred trump¬ 
ets shading from dead white tinged with pink to a deep 
cream, almost a yellow. Twined with them were 
sprays of bramble, heavy with luscious black fruit, the 
unripe berries standing out like rubies and emeralds 
among jet. Now and again came a hanging shower 
of traveller’s-joy, green leaves and ragged rosettes of 
nuts, as yet unripe, with here and there the last linger¬ 
ing glory of June’s darling, the wild rose, and the 
orange and scarlet jewels of straggling briony. 

It was very hot, and they were glad when they came 
to a fresh water spring—a clear, sparkling trickle of 
water gushing out among the ferns, and the Sealyham 
drank long and loudly at it, and Deirdre and Guy made 
cups of their hands and drank too. 

Deirdre looked at him over the rosy goblet of her 
soft palms. 

The tired, haggard look had passed—he had re¬ 
gained his perfect physical condition again. His skin 


358 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


was tanned by sun and wind, his eyes were bright and 
clear. Deirdre felt an exquisite pride as she looked at 
him, and then a stab of sharp misery. In such a short 
time he would be gone. . . . 

Guy turned and saw the expression on her face. 
He put his arm round her. 

'‘Happy, Dear?” 

She tried to lie bravely, failed, and said miserably— 

“No.” 

There was silence for a minute. Then Deirdre 
looked up at him, as if to read something in his face. 

“Are you happy, Guy?” 

His arm dropped from her shoulders. He turned 
away, and, while apparently intent upon a clump 
of blue borage, flung furiously over his shoulders 


“How can I be?” 

Deirdre smiled a little in spite of herself. He 
seemed so young in his flushed anger—so piteously 
young. He went on in a strange, muffled voice. 

“What’s the use of playing, and laughing, and pre¬ 
tending we’re happy when we’re not? How can we be 
really happy with the knowledge that in a few weeks 
it must end? Deirdre, it’s a sheer impossibility—we 
ought never to have tried it-” 

“It was my fault,” said Deirdre miserably—“All my 
fault. But I did so want to—to be happy, even for this 
little while.” 

Quickly Guy’s anger had passed. 

“You shall be,” he said reassuringly, tenderly— 
“We’ll try and forget that it is going to end—^try and 




HAPPINESS 


359 


forget even Terry for these few weeks. I can’t bear 
to think of you unhappy, Dear. It hurts even worse 
than the thought of leaving you.” 

A cloud seemed to have come over the sun. The 
two in the lane looked at each other mutely, with brave 
eyes. Then Deirdre with an effort rallied her gaiety. 
She started to talk a little too vivaciously. 

‘‘Wheres the dog? Sam, Sam! Oh, there you are, 
you wicked scrap! Oh, do look at that field, Guy! 
Isn’t it the loveliest colour?” 

She pointed to a ploughed field, the furrows of which 
were a deep cornelian red. It stretched right up a 
gently sloping hillside, and on the crest of the hill a 
man driving a plough was silhouetted. Man, plough, 
and the superb lines of the straining horses were 
sharply dark against the blue of the sky. They looked 
almost grotesquely out of proportion on the sky-line, 
as if they were poised on the edge of the world. The 
deep red of the soil, the intense delphinium blue of the 
sky, and the leafy green hedges, made a vivid and ar¬ 
resting picture. 

“And there are the pink sheep!” cried Deirdre. “Oh 
dear, how I do love Devon! Everything in it’s so dif¬ 
ferent to other countries, from its cream to its sheep! 
Don’t those look somehow comical?” 

She started to laugh at the rosy bundles of wool 
that hrowsed the sweet grass of the next field. They 
looked absurdly like giant flowers starring the jade- 
green turf. There was a small grey donkey grazing 
quite contentedly among them, like a Jew among the 
Gentiles. As they passed, he lifted up his head and 


360 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


trumpeted loudly, and with a curious vibrating timbre, 
to Mr. Weller’s great excitement. 

They were going down the steep lane that led into 
Cherrystone, when they met a long string of cattle 
coming up it, driven by the farmer on horseback. 

He shouted to them in the soft, slurring Devon 
drawl: 

“Du yu mainde staandin’ t’ th’ saide o’ the rooad, 
zur, for a minute? Them’ll be paast vury soon! 
Coome-up, Moll! Tck! tck I” 

Guy collared Mr. Weller, and they stood watching 
the long cavalcade pass, the sun glistening on the 
beasts’ reddish-brown skins. Last of all came the 
farmer, lightly flicking a hazel switch, his beaming 
face hot and glistening with perspiration under his 
battered hat, like a round scarlet moon. 

“Thaank yu, zur 1 Thaank you, marm I” He touched 
the battered hat. “Very ^aarm tu-day! Whoa there. 
Buttercup! Hola, Bet! Tck! tck!” 

He an(|..his long processioh turned up a branching- 
off lane, dim and leafy. Deirdre and Guy went on down 
to Cherrystone. 

Opposite the stumpy little grey church was a little 
ivied farm-house, where the farmer’s wife, a hand¬ 
some woman in a fresh print gown, welcomed them 
with a charming courtesy that would have done credit 
to a French marquise. They had tea in a cool little 
dining-room, which, however, they would have will¬ 
ingly given up for the pleasure of eating a meal in 
the big red-tiled kitchen. 

Outside in the farmyard they were marking the 


HAPPINESS 


361 


sheep. One by one a farm-hand let them out of the pen, 
where they were held by another lad while the 
farmer stamped them himself with his initial, marking 
it on the short clipped wool in some kind of pitch. 
Once they were marked, the sheep roamed aimlessly 
about the cobbled farmyard, zealously watched by two 
collie dogs and an old liver-coloured spaniel. Deirdre 
and Guy watched them with interest, Mr. Weller, for¬ 
tified by the rare treat of a saucer of tea, with a huge 
excitement. There was a jar of dahlias on the table 
—great spiked blooms of velvety flame-scarlet and 
pure, clear yellow. They came out of the little flower 
garden in front of the house, with its rows of demure 
pansies, and salmon-pink gladioli. 

The three of them went and sat in a flower-filled 
meadow for the rest of the long golden afternoon. 
They were gay—laboriously gay. Deirdre sang, and 
Guy wove a wreath of blue scabious to crown her hair. 
Mr. Weller distinguished himself by getting stuck in 
a rabbit hole, and having to be pulled out by his hind 
legs. They walked home to Purse Pomeroy through 
the woods, when a nightingale was singing in snatches 
and bursts of rapturous melody, and the lime trees 
were flooding the tremendous twilight with sweetness. 
And between them walked a shadowy figure, with a 
sleek fair head set on broad shoulders, who looked 
at them with Terence’s gay blue eyes, who laughed at 
them with Terence’s wide, humorous mouth. Both of 
them were aware of his presence, and happiness, that 
most elusive and fragile of fabrics, was shattered for 
them that day. 


362 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


III 

That was only one day, though, in a chain of hap¬ 
piness. They reminded Deirdre of a row of perfect 
pearls, slipping one by one on the golden thread of 
time. After that one incident when they had both 
admitted the misery which was hidden beneath the 
glittering gauze of their laughter, they had not men¬ 
tioned it again. Both Deirdre and Guy seemed to 
thrust the mere thought resolutely behind them, drag¬ 
ging happiness over it to hide its grim horrors. Even 
if they were aware of the lurking terror, neither of 
them referred to it again. 

“Let’s play this month away!” was Deirdre’s cry. 
So they played, like two children in the sunshine, heed¬ 
less of the past or the future, but living with a glorious, 
confidence in the blissfully happy present. 

The month slipped away on dancing feet—there 
came the last fortnight—the last week—the last day. 

They explored all the leafy lanes and sleepy villages 
of South Devon. They motored to Dartmouth, where 
they went up the Dart in a hired launch to Totnes. 
Deirdre loved the tranquil sheet of water, Icoking like 
a coat of shimmering silver mail in the sunshine, that 
v/ound its broad ribbon so peacefully between its “high 
woods, heron-haunted. 

For the most part, however, they stayed at Purse 
Pomeroy, leading a Lotus-eater’s existence, lazing on 
the sands, bathing twice and sometimes three times a 
day, going after pollock and mackerel in the little 
dinghy, rambling along the leafy lanes, and taking 
picnics to Gara Rock or Splat Cove. As Deirdre said 


HAPPINESS 363 

they “made up in a month for all the happiness they 
had missed in a lifetime.” 

But the month went, as all happy times do go, too 
quickly. 

Came the last week—the last day but one- 

They^ went to Dartmeet in a little car which Guy 
hired at the local garage. Because it was one of their 
•-last'^a^s, Deii'dre was vividly gay—^beautiful with the 
fierce, leaping beauty of a flame. Her gaiety hurt Guy 
somehow. ’ He was reminded of that night at the 
Dower House when she had sung those airy French 
chansons, and said brilliant things with a laughing 
mouth and misery in her eyes. Then, as now, there 
had been something hard and forced in her vivacity— 
it was all as unreal and glittering as a tinsel domino 
thrown over a drab gown. Over the moor road the 
little car sped on through the sunshine. The moor lay 
splendid and lonely, stretching as far as the eye could 
see. Over its swelling contours the heather had flung 
its rose-red cloak, the fading bracken had tossed a 
^■royal mantle of purplish-brown and henna-red and 
burnt orange. Rearing rocky heads out of the sea of 
flaming heather were the tors'^rim and dark against 
a delphinium sky. 

The little car kept along the road that’stretched like 
a ribbon over the moors, occasionally dipping down 
into narrow sunken lanes, fringed with pine and beech, 
where solitary grey stone cottages nestled among the 
trees, surrounded by thick hedges of dangling scarlet 
and purple fuchsias. 

For the time Deirdre was genuinely happy. The 



364 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


beauty of it all laid a gentle hand on the turmoil of 
her thoughts. Guy turned once to find her looking at 
him with love in her eyes. 

‘‘Darling-” 

“D’you love me?’’ he asked, for the sheer pleasure 
of hearing her answer: 

“You know I do.” 

They looked at each other for a minute, then swiftly 
away. The same thought had come to both. Words 
were mingling with the throb of the engines- 

“One day more—one—one day—one—day— 

more-” 

Quite near them a lark rose, and soared up, up, into 
the blueness, shaking a torrent of sweet, twittering 
notes. Higher and higher it soared, was lost and 
merged into the blue vault of the sky, but still its clear, 
shrill trillings floated down to them, like the far-off 
phantom melody of faunish piping. . . . 

“I should like to be a lark,” said Deirdre. “It must 
feel lovely up there with only blue sky round them, 
and the moor underneath.” 

She paused to restrain Mr. Weller, who had seen a 
rabbit scurry over the road, and was panting to leap 
out of the car in hot pursuit. 

Then she went on, looking thoughtfully at the 
jagged grey head of Beck Tor, over which a sparrow- 
hawk, a mere speck in the blue, hovered motionless, 
suspended between heaven and earth. 

“How I love the moors! It seems funny to think 
that in a few days I shall have left it all behind for 
London.” 




HAPPINESS 365 

The sparrow-hawk swooped suddenly, dropping like 
a stone, and was lost to sight. . , . 

“And you?” said the girl, turning to watch his face. 
^Where will you be in a few days?” 

“At my villa in Venice.” 

“Venice . . .” She was thinking of Venice by 
moonlight, a dream city of ivory and pearls, aqua¬ 
marine shadows drifting over the lagoons, tower and 
dome and spire standing out like pale silhouettes against 
a dusky sapphire sky. 

“ ‘A villa in Venice’—^that sounds very grand, 
I know! In reality it’s a small place, picturesque 
and as spick and span as a doll’s house. The. garden’s 
the best part of it, though—full of nimosa and pink 
oleanders and dark cypresses against a very blue 
sky.” 

“It sounds—heavenly,” said Deirdre in a very low 
voice. She was almost frightened at the pang of fierce 
longing which went through her at his words. Long¬ 
ing for that Venetian garden, and love which would 
never end, golden days which would never break their 
glorious chain. . . . It would be so easy. . . . For the 
first time Deirdre knew the siren call of temptation. 
She shook it off in a minute, but the evil memory of it 
remained, like the dark blot of a vulture’s wings among 
the apple-blossom of a Sussex orchard. 

The little car sped onward over the moors. Once 
they passed a little brown stream chuckling and slip¬ 
ping beneath a low stone bridge. Butterflies fluttered 
over the heather, tiny blue things powdered with silver 
dust, now and then a gorgeous Peacock or Red 


366 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Admiral, flaunting the orange, scarlet, and black 
splashed velvet of their wings. A little vagrant moor 
wind blew in their faces, bringing with it the hot scent 
of the heather, the warm, nutty sweetness of the gorse 
that spilt its blazing faerie gold among twisted thorn 
bushes in the hollow. The never ending pageant of 
the moor wore on, trailing its brave panoply of wine- 
scarlet heather and henna-tinted bracken. 

They got to Dartmeet at lunch time, going through 
the tiny village and pulling up on the grass by the stone 
bridge that spans the Dart. The river was chuckling 
and singing beneath, crossed a few yards dcwn by a 
clapper bridge. Deirdre stood on this bridge, looking 
down at the dancing water. Presently she ran back, 
the Sealyham barking at her heels, to the car. 

'‘Oh, Guy, it’s lovely!” 

“Wait till you’ve seen it further down! Come on, 
let’s go.” 

The three of them crossed the road, and walked 
along the side of the Dart. At first Deirdre gave little 
stammering exclamations—presently she was reduced 
to incoherent ecstasy. She had seen all the things that 
are supposed to be the most beautiful in the world. 
Yet never in her life had she experienced the feeling 
of sheer rapture that gripped her by the throat at the 
sight of the Dart, running and leaping and chuckling 
under its clapper bridge- 

Ah, that little river, singing its immortal song as it 
slithed over the smooth, shining brown stones, tum¬ 
bling over the salmon leaps in laughter of flying spray! 
The colour of it was in itself a thing of beauty—a 



HAPPINESS 


367 . 

deep, tawny brown that was clouded amber in the sun¬ 
light, and dark orange in the shadows, so clear that 
you could see the stones at the bottom. It went singing 
on, singing on, swirling round the smooth, glistening 
humped brown stones and boulders, leaping over some 
in a little, flurry of laughter, chuckling as it disturbed 
the quiet surface of some sleeping amber pool with 
mischievous eddying whirls and ripples. Such a gay, 
laughing little river, the Dart! It seemed never to glide 
in calm majesty, but always to run and leap and laugh, 
hurrying along in a delicious babbling scurry, chuckling 
under the clapper bridge, singing, singing, over the 
smooth wet stones. On one side was a steep bank 
clothed in whortleberry bushes, crowned with deep 
woods, and further along a bare shoulder of rose- 
stained moor. To the left were more trees, lichened 
rocks and frowning boulders that leant over the water 
as if guarding like benign sentinels their dancing child, 
the Dart. Quite near them a fish leapt, leaving rapidly 
widening circles after it. On and on hurried the little 
river, skipping the salmon leaps with a flurry and a 
cascade of laughter, murmuring to itself, humming an 
endless little song of summer skies and birds and 
flowers, chuckling, whispering, singing, singing over 
the glistening brown stones. . . . 

Presently Deirdre sighed and smiled. ‘‘The Dart 
makes me feel a little sad, I think.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s too beautiful, and when things are too beau¬ 
tiful they always hurt.” 

She bent and put her arms round him—he was 


368 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


squatting on his heels dabbling a hazel switch in the 
water. 

“When I think of the Dart, darling, I shall think: 
of you. You’re both so vividly alive and young, 
somehow. Neither of you will ever grow old. The 
Dart laughs all the time—its such a gay, mischievous 
little river—and you used to laugh a lot, Guy—until 
—-until lately.” 

“Don’t I laugh a lot lately?” he asked, dropping 
the switch and looking up into her face. 

There was a small pause, then-“No,” said 

Deirdre, very low. Her eyes were tragic, although 
her mouth was folded bravely into steadiness. 

Then she flung out her arms, and laughed. 

“But we will to-day, Guy! We’ll be gay to-day, 
and laugh a lot, and forget everyone in the world 
except ourselves! I- feel fey—absolutely fey! I’m 
not going to give myself time to think! I’m going to 
laugh—laugh!” 

She threw back her head, and made the glen peal 
with ghostly laughter. Then she started to dance, 
like a mad thing, like a ribbon of flame, by the side 
of the laughing river which went singing, singing 
over the smooth stones. . . . 

For the rest of the afternoon they played like two 
happy, careless children, though for both of them words 
were mingling in with the chuckling song of the Dart. 

“One day more—one day—one—one—day 

more-” 

And to Deirdre another voice was singing—^the* 
soft, seductive voice of the siren. 




HAPPINESS 


369 


IV 

On that very day, many miles away from Purse 
Pomeroy, Terence Liscarney was walking down the 
yew alley in the Dower House garden. He had only 
arrived home from Deauville with the Wycomes the 
day before, and, looking very brown and fit, had run 
down to Greyfriars to see how things were getting on. 
Wheatcock had informed him that the Dowager was 
in the rose-garden, so Terence went out to find her. 
It was about six o’clock on a perfect August after¬ 
noon. The intense heat of the noon had given place 
to the refreshing coolness of approaching twilight. 
The thrushes were singing from the orchard as he 
passed the white wicket—a lad was mowing the long 
grass round the apple trees, the even stroke of his 
scythe making a pleasant swishing whisper. In the 
flower-beds delphiniums raised tall blue spires, poppies 
blazed in patches of scarlet flame, roses were every¬ 
where. In the rose-garden, with its winding walks, 
they foamed over lattices, clambered up trellised arch¬ 
ways—great bushes of York and Lancaster, Maiden’s 
Blush, the old-fashioned damask, scented sweet-briar, 
and the nodding pink heads of Dorothy Perkins. 

The Dowager, in a faded green jumper, a short 
rweed skirt, and battered straw hat, was standing 
by a lattice of tea roses cutting blooms to fill the flat- 
bottomed rush basket on her arm. When she saw her 
son coming down the path with a setter galumphing 
at his heels, she put down the basket with much 
precision, and went to meet him. 

“My dear boy, you look very well!” she said in her 


370 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


hearty voice, her thin lips smiling, her eyes perfectly 
expressionless. 

“Yes, Fm awfully fit. Mater, thanks. Don’t you 
admire my sunburn? Fm awfully bucked with it!” 

He picked up the scissors from her basket, and 
cut an opening flower that nodded above his tall head. 

“By gad, what thorns!” he said ruefully, sucking 
his brown finger. 

The Dowager watched him with unmoved eyes. 
She meant this evening to play her carefully hoarded 
ace of trumps, and, although she knew what it would 
mean to the son she loved, no compunction stirred 
her. There was something terribly ruthless about the 
cold eyes, the hard mouth. Hate, long smouldering 
in her, had absolutely swamped all pity or compunc¬ 
tion. She did not care who she hurt as long as the 
object of that smouldering hate was ruined. Spartan 
in her ruthlessness, she meant to strike the blow at 
Deirdre which was to fell her to the ground. If 
Terence got hurt too, it could not be helped. Terribly 
ruthless, hard and cold as granite, that woman as she 
stood there, watching, biding her time. 

She took the scissors from her son, and cut some 
more roses. Terence started to tell her about Deau¬ 
ville, the Wycomes, the people he had met there. He 
leant against a post of the pergola and lit a cigarette, 
smiling at her through the blue haze. 

The Dowager selected a rose, snipped it carefully, 
pulled off the thorns, and laid it among its brethren 
in the basket ibefore asking the question. Then she 
said in a casual voice- 


HAPPINESS 


371 


“And your wife, Terence?” 

She watched him under her pale lashes while ap¬ 
parently brushing a tiny shimmering insect off a pale 
yellow bud. 

“Deirdre? She’s in Devon, you know, taking a 
rest cure. I shall have to let her know Pm back.” 

“Have you heard from her lately?” 

“No, Mater, didn’t I tell you? She didn’t write to 
me and I didn’t write to her—she wanted to just laze 
and not be bothered answering my scrawls. At first 
I felt rather worried about her, but Dahlia says that 
this Mrs. Bishop or Canon or Dean, or whatever her 
name is, is a sort of angel without wings, and will take 
care of Deirdre.” 

The Dowager looked at her son rather strangely. 

“You are sure she is all right?” 

Terence stared at her. 

“My dear Mater, of course! She would have let me 
know if she wasn’t! She’ll be back in a few days, 
I expect, and then we’ll be in town until November, 
I suppose—of course, it’s just how Deirdre decides.” 
He suddenly and boyishly grinned. “I’ve got a sur¬ 
prise for her—a set of chinchilla. Saw them in Paris, 
and I thought how ripping she’d look snuggled up in 
their silvery grey, with her green eyes and topping 
hair. D’you think she’ll like ’em?” 

“I have no doubt,” said the Dowager woodenly, 
“that she will.” 

“Well, that’s all right, then.” Terence heaved a 
sigh of relief. “Mater, you’ve got a topping show 
of Canterbury bells just by the orchard—never saw 


372 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


such whackers. Hobbs must be perfectly green with 
envy.” 

The Dowager steeled herself. For a minute she 
had had a poignant vision of Terence as a tiny boy, 
riding by the side of his father’s hunter on a shaggy 
Shetland pony no bigger than a good-sized New¬ 
foundland—Terry at public school, winning half the 
events on Sports’ day, big and fair in white vest and 
shorts—Terry before Deirdre had come into his life, 
stealing his heart, blinding his eyes to all others- 

That sudden softening, those fleeting, tender 
memories, gave place to a vision of a girl with green 
eyes and a disdainful mouth—ithe usurper, who had 
driven her out of her place as mistress of Greyfriars, 
out of her place in Terry’s heart. Swiftly surging to 
draw armour over that momentary softness, flooded 
the bitter waters of hate. The Dowager turned to 
snip a blood-red rose on the opposite trellis. Quite 
casually she flung a question over her shoulder— 

“And your friend, Guy Wyndham?” 

“Jingle? He’s gone away for a month’s holiday to 
rest after all his writing. I must ring him up to¬ 
morrow and see if he’s back.” 

“Where has he gone to?” 

“I don’t know—I asked Deirdre, but she didn’t 
know either. The lad seems to have just bunked 
without leaving an address—probably to Italy. Or 
to Wales perhaps—I know he was always raving about 
the fishing there.” 

The Dowager, very busy stripping the red rose of 
thorns, said in a curious voice- 




HAPPINESS 


375 


“I can tell you where he is!” 

''You can! Did he tell you, then? That’s funny 
—telling you and not telling me!” 

“He did not tell me.” 

“How do you know then? Where is he?” 

The Dowager suddenly dropped the rose and swung 
round, all her hate and pent-up venom vibrating in 
her voice- 

“He is down at Purse Pomeroy with—your wife!” 

The ash on Terence’s cigarette had grown long— 
mechanically he flicked it off. He seemed not to fully 
take in the meaning of the words, but repeated them 
stupidly- 

“Down at Purse Pomeroy with—my wife!” 

The Dowager laughed on a cracked note. 

“Don’t you understand? Oh, you fool, you fool! 
It has been going on for months, and you’ve never 


Quite suddenly Terence understood. A furious red 
ran up under his tanned skin—sheer leaping murder 
blazed in the blue eyes. Yet when he spoke his voice 
was quite soft and steady, although it was somehow 
rather terrible. 

“It’s a lie!” he said—“It’s a damned lie!” 

The dowager felt almost frightened at this new 
Terence who stood confronting her. A minute ago 
he had been a laughing-eyed, smooth-faced boy—and 
now in that boy’s place stood a man—and a man with 
murder in his eyes: 

“It’s the truth,” she said falteringly—“It’s the 
truth!” 





374 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Terence took a step forward, and stopped, his body 
crouched a little as if to spring, his hands shaking- 

“If you were my father,” he said in that soft, hard 
voice—“I’d kill you for that. By God, I’d kill you as 
you stand! But you’re my mother, so I can’t!” 

“Terence—Terence!” 

“It’s a damned lie,” he repeated slowly—“A damned, 
filthy lie!” 

The Dowager gathered all her forces together for 
one supreme effort. 

“It’s not a lie! I have the proofs!” 

Terence said nothing, but stooped and picked up the 
rose that lay on the path between them. With shaking 
fingers he started to pull it to pieces—one by one the 
scarlet petals fluttered down, lying on the cold stone 
like drops of dragon’s blood. 

“I have the proofs!” the Dowager repeated—“All 
Guy Wyndham’s luggage was labelled to Purse Pom¬ 
eroy—he went by the lo.io from Paddington, three 
days after Deirdre did!” 

“How do you know?” asked Terence, still pulling at 
the rose—the last of the petals fluttered down, bits of 
yellow stamens—last of all the green stalk and head 
of the rose, bereft of all its sweetness- 

The Dowager went a dull red- 

“I—I made it my business to find out,” she said. 

Terence’s mouth sneered- 

“You mean, I suppose, that you employed a de¬ 
tective agency to do the dirty work for you?” 

“I—I had them watched, yes. I thought it was my 
duty.” 






HAPPINESS 


375 


Terence's smile was the perfection of insolence. 
If he could not hurt her physically, at least he could 
hurt her with his tongue. 

“But how touching, my dear mater! And such a 
good idea! D’you know I wouldn't have thought of 
the detectives in a month of Sundays!” 

The Dowager flinched a little. 

“I got them to watch Deirdre’s movements and 
Wyndham’s. They were nearly always together while 
you were away. Even when you were at home they 
met secretly.” 

Terence’s furious flush had faded—^he was now 
very white, and his mouth was twitching- 

“And you have been watching her too, haven’t 
you? And then go and put a couple of dirty little 
detectives on their track—God, what a despicable, dirty 
thing to do! What perfection of petty, common 
spite!” 

He meant to hurt her, and he succeeded. The 
Dowager was not without a certain pride of her own. 
Now she had no compunction. 

“Everyone else saw that this would happen!” she 
almost hissed at him—“Everyone but yoU! All Lon¬ 
don is talking! Mrs. Vauxall-” 

“Oh, I might have recognized her handiwork! 
You and she together—Lord, how you all must 
have cackled!” Again a leaping flame was in his 
eyes. 

“I don’t believe a single damned word of it!” he 
said deliberately—“You pack of infernal liars!” 

“Terence!” 




376 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


“You don’t like me saying that? But you have 
brought it on yourself, you know.” 

He turned to go—the Dowager made one last de- 
sparing effort. 

“Go and see for yourself! Take them unawares! 
Go down and see for yourself, you fool!” 

He paused for a moment and looked at her with 
sheer hate in his eyes. 

“Understand this—if it is true, or if it is not, 
which I don’t for a moment doubt, I shall never 
forgive you for this—never, as long as I live.” 

His voice broke a little—he turned, and without 
a word left the rose-garden, with its clipped box, its 
bushes of York and Lancaster, Maiden’s Blush, sweet 
damask, snowy white, dusky scarlet, blush pink, pale 
yellow tipped with flame- 

The Dowager remained standing among the roses 
looking after him. There was something a little 
pathetic about her then. She had made her throw 
to ruin Deirdre, to turn Terence’s love into hate, and 
she had lost. She remained standing there, staring, 
staring, until she saw the last of Terence’s tall figure, 
until he vanished down the yew alley out of her 
sight. Then mechanically, she stooped and picked 
up the fallen rose petals that, bruised and tattered, 
lay on the path like drops of new-shed blood. 

Terence Liscarney, after he had left the Dower 
House garden, took a short cut across the park to the 
big house. He walked very fast, and as he walked, 
he refused to allow himself to think. Instead he 



HAPPINESS 


377 


whistled very softly between his teeth a habit acquired 
from school-days which he always used when excited, 
worried, or facing overwhelming odds. Terence Lis- 
camey had whistled like that when leading his House 
fifteen to an unexpected victory against opponents who, 
owing to their size and speed, had been already hailed 
by public opinion as almost certain conquerors. He 
had whistled like that going out to bat for the ’Varsity, 
with his knees behaving in a treacherous way under 
him, and a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach 
—later on when leading his bombers over the top on 
a forlorn hope at Ypres. And now Terence Liscarney, 
up against something tougher than he had ever before 
experienced, fighting desperately with his back to the 
wall—whistled. It was characteristically British— 
typical of the pugnacious, hard-fighting, hard-dying 
breed, that whistle in the face of a forlorn hope—He 
covered the ground very quickly with his long stride, 
and in a few minutes was at Greyfriars. He had 
motored down in the little Wolseley, which was drawn 
up outside the front door. He slipped on his overcoat 
and got in. The little car slid out of the big paved 
court, through the high wrought-iron gates, and down 
the long avenue under the leafy greenness of the 
chestnuts. 

Once out on the London road Terence gave the 
Wolseley her head. Usually a careful driver, he seemed 
to cast discretion to the winds. And as the miles 
slipped away, he let the pent-up flood of his thoughts 
pour forth- 

That it was true he could not, would not believe— 



378 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


And yet little damning memories kept on stealing 
through his mind- 

First of all, Deirdre’s face when she met Wyndham 
at the opera—the whiteness of it, the strained, sick 
horror—Why was it that he had never noticed it till 
now ?- 

Now that he looked hack on it all, it seemed to have 

been Deirdre and Guy—always Deirdre and Guy- 

He remembered coming into the Water Garden and 
finding them sitting on the rim of the pool, speaking 

no word, just looking at each other silently- 

Deirdre and Guy standing in the moonlit Walled 
Garden, she in her glittering black dress, her Spanish 
shawl—^the icy coldness of her lips when he kissed 
them—and the way she had insisted on going away 
alone —without even Parker—and had refused to write 

to him or hear from him—Why?- 

Last of all he remembered the strange expression 
in her eyes when she said good-bye to him at Pad¬ 
dington. And his own desolate feeling that, in some 

inexplicable way, he had lost her- 

This last had worn off in a day, although at the 
time he had been vaguely disturbed by it. 

But now every word, every action, had its own 
damnable significance. 

God—if it should be true! 

But it could not 'be—he tried to think of Deirdre’s 

clear eyes, of Guy’s loyalty and straightness- 

The whole thing was wildly absurd, yet—- 

The hand on the steering wheel gripped so hard 
that the knuckles showed perfectly white. He sud- 









HAPPINESS 


379 


denly realized that his forehead was wet, and clumsily 

groped for a handkerchief- 

That night Terence dined in solitary state at 57, 
Clement Street, and afterwards looked out trains in 
a timetable. The 10.10 to Kingsbridge had been taken 
off, and the best train of the day was now the 3.27. 
He rang for his man- 

“Pack a few things in a suit-case, Mackenzie. I 
am going to Devon to-morrow.” 

“Verra gude, your lorrd-ship.” 

Left to himself, he wandered upstairs and into 
Deirdre’s bedroom. The place was in darkness, but 
he pressed a switch and instantly the yellow-shaded 
lamps flooded it with glowing light. The place looked 
deserted and forlorn, the big lacquer dressing-table 
bereft of its glittering tortoise-shell and gold and 
crystal, the bed innocent of snowy pillows or lace 
counterpane. There still hung on the air a faint 
wraith of the scent that Deirdre used—a subtle breath 
of violets. Terence stood looking all round him rather 
forlorn. He crossed over to the big wardrobe, and 
flung it open. Inside hung a veritable rainbow of 
dresses, all on hangers, shrouded with tissue paper. 
He had seen Deirdre in all of them—^they seemed 
somehow a part of her. There was a silver tissue one 
—a mist-blue chiffon sewn with moonlight sequins 
—a peach-coloured taffeta, the skirt slightly wired— 

a diaphanous thing of orchid tulle and silver net- 

Terence shut the door with a crash, and went into the 
adjoining bathroom. The electric light glistened on 
pale green tiles, spotless enamel, the twin silver dol- 





380 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


phins that would, on pressing a concealed button in 
their tails, belch forth water into the big porcelain bath. 
Here also it was rather deserted—the white shelves 
held nothing but a solitary crystal bowl that contained 
scented dusting powder. Suddenly Terence saw some¬ 
thing which made an absurd lump come into his 
throat. Under a chair, apparently overlooked by 
Parker’s eagle eye, lay, just as Deirdre had carelessly 
flung them, a pair of littl^ gold embroidered satin 
mules, with frivolous tinsel rose-buds adorning them. 
To Terence’s eyes they looked forlorn and pathetic, 
those little, gay shoes- 

He picked one up, and stood turning it over in his 
hands. The absurd thing, with its high heel, its 
lining of soft rosy satin! He touched the rosebuds, 
the gold embroideries. This frivolous little slipper 
had had the honour of enshrining the rose and white 
of Deirdre’s slender foot. Here her round, soft heel 
had rested—he remembered all at once how she had 
moved about the big bedroom in her fluffy negligees, 
her bare feet thrust into little heedless mules that 
flopped up and down as she walked—Deirdre! . . . 
Deirdre! . . . 

Quite suddenly Terence crushed the little satin 
slipper to his cheek—a great sob shook him. . . . 



CHAPTER XIV 
‘’Tove is strong as death'"' 

Song of Solomon 


I 


The last day. . . . 

They tried to pretend that it was just an ordinary 
day—one out of a hundred others. They bathed, and 
took a picnic to Gara Rock, and were so gallantly, 
piteously gay that they almost deceived each other. 

Almost, but not quite. Even though their mouths 
laughed, their eyes gave them away to each other. . . . 

And, miles away, Terence Liscarney was sitting in 
an empty first-class carriage, watching the flying 
scenery with dull eyes. He had not slept all night, and 
looked tired and very old. The smooth, boyish face 
was haggard—there were dark rings under the blue 
eyes. He picked up the Morning Post and tried to 
concentrate on the leading article, but quickly threw 
it down again. What a noise the train was making! 
It was singing a little tune as it hurried along—the 
Quaker Girl waltz- 

“Pom pom pom, pom pom pom POM! 

Pom pom pom, pom pom pom POM! 

Pom pom pom, pom pom pom, POM, pom pom! 

Pom pom pom, pom pom pom, POM, pom pom!’* 
381 



382 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


It was making his head ache desperately. He took 
out his thin cigarette case, and was just extracting a 
de Reszke, when a piece of paper in the other side of 
the case attracted him. It was the drawing on the 
back of an old envelope that Gervase Wycome had 
made of Deirdre. Terence always carried it about 
with him as a talisman. He took it out and unfolded 
it. Deirdre looked up at him, smiling her brave, 
pitiful smile, with her long legs crossed in front of 
her, her slim hands clenched. Terence looked at it 
for a minute or two in silence. Then, his lips twitch¬ 
ing a little, he put it back in his case- 

‘Tom pom pom, pom pom pom, pom, pom pom! 

Pom pom pom, pom pom pom, pom, pom pom!” . . . 

That infernal racket . . . Deirdre . . . Deirdre. 

“Pom pom pom, pom pom pom, pom !” . . . 

The day wore on to its close. It had been a 
beautiful day, they both agreed, smiling at each other 
with brave lips. Never had Purse Pomeroy appeared 
to them in such enchanting guise. The sun blazed 
down on the amber sands of the little coves, blue and 
lilac where the towering, jagged grey rocks threw 
their grotesque shadows. Away past Gara Rock the 
coastal hills loomed, burning with the heather’s intense 
fire, covered with bracken whose greenness Autumn 
was already beginning to paint with patches of orange 
and leaf gold and purplish brown. 

They had the cove to themselves all the afternoon. 
The only person in sight was a small urchin in a 


LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH” 383 


scarlet jersey, splashing bare-footed over the wet sand, 
armed with a large shrimping net. He was slim and 
dark-eyed like a Sicilian fisher lad, and as he passed 
them he shouted a friendly greeting, with an ac¬ 
companying flash of beautiful white teeth. 

They bathed twice that afternoon. Deirdre loved 
the dark coolness of the cave where she undressed, 
and after it the sunshine, warm on arm and cheek 
and throat, the feel of the water closing round her as 
she dived. Guy dived too, off a flat, jutting-out finger 
of rock which raked forward about thirty feet above 
the water. It was a difficult dive, as the slightest 
miscalculation of time or spring might serve to dash 
the diver on the rocks beneath. 

Deirdre, swimming lazily some way off, caught in 
her breath a little sharply as she watched the poised 
figure. He stood for a minute or two, then dived 
beautifully and with unerring judgment, his straight 
body cleaving the air like a knife. Deirdre breathed 
a sigh of relief, laughing a little at the tense anxiety 
with which she had watched him dive. 

Afterwards they lay on the sands, silent for the most 
part, watching the hundreds of changing shades on the 
water. There were drifts of deep, luminous aquama¬ 
rine and peacock, flecked with tiny racing white fingers 
of foam—^there were shifting, shadows, cast by the 
clouds, of dim delphinium blue, and a faint violet 
that was hardly a colour at all—further out the sun 
caught it, and it became a shimmering sea of molten 
silver, shining like the scales of a beautiful serpent, 
glittering as if diamond dust had been scattered over it. 


3^4 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


They watched a whole fleet of fishing-boats put 
out from the harbour and past the Bar into the open 
sea. The sun shone on their sails of tawny orange, 
and russet, and deep burnt amber—they looked like 
a handful of Autumn leaves on the water, Deirdre 
thought. One was a vivid scarlet, and that was a 
drifting peony petal—a blood-red blot on the silver 
sea. . . . 

The afternoon died a lingering death. It was getting 
on for sunset when they strolled home along the cliff 
path, followed by a tired but jubilant Mr. Weller. 
They had nearly reached the white gate that led into 
the leafy lane, when Deirdre said suddenly- 

“It’s going to be a glorious sunset.” 

“Shall we wait and watch it?” 

“Yes, I want to say good-bye here. It will be 
better than if we said it at Cliff Cottage, don’t you 
think?” 

“Much better.” 

Deirdre did not know whether she wanted to laugh 
or cry at the studied casualness of their voices. They 
turned off the narrow footpath, climbed the hill for 
some little way, then sat down among the heather. 
They were quite alone in their bloom-sweet eyrie— 
even Mr. Weller had rambled off by himself to in¬ 
vestigate a porcupine-like clump of gorse. The only 
sounds were the tinkle of far-off sheep-bells, and the 
soft, plaintive soughing of the sea running into the 
little coves. Over the sea the dying sun was trailing 
his tattered banners of rose-scarlet and brazen gold, 
making the water look like a rippling sheet of flame. 



“LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH’’ 385 

As the two among the heather sat silently watching, 
the scarlet-sailed fishing-boat that they had seen put 
out from the harbour came round the point of rocks 
and sailed up the estuary. It seemed to have glided 
straight out of the sunset—its vivid sails were blood- 
red with the fiery glow. Slowly the lacquer red ball 
of the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Very slowly 
the brazen gold and tattered scarlet faded, merged into 
dim drifts of delicate primrose and faintest lilac and 
ethereal rose. Against this was one long cloud, like 
an enchanted galleon riding a faerie sea, the merest 
shadow of a thing—all soft greys and lavenders, gilded 
at the edges with gold. Above it was a strip of the 
purest, most exquisite blue, the colour of a robin’s 
egg. All this gorgeous brocade of shifting colours and 
shadows was sewn with but one jewel—the first star, 
wan as an angel’s tear against the opal sky. 

“Oh!” breathed Deirdre. “Isn’t it perfect?” 

She sat leaning against the boy’s shoulder, watching 
the gorgeous pomp and pagentry of the sun’s funeral 
with wide, enraptured eyes. 

Slowly the last lingering tatters of rose and lilac 
were fading. The robin’s egg blue had merged into 
a soft silver)" mauve. Night, the dead king’s kins¬ 
man, started to drop the scented veil of twilight over 
the world. The wine-scarlet of the heather deepened 
to black, sea and sky took on the same dim sh?,des. 
More stars appeared, one by one, jewelling the lavender 
gauze of the dusk. 

Round the point came the rest of the fishing-boats, 
their Autumn leaf sails were drifting shadows on the 


386 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


pearly sea. There were lanterns tied to the bows of 
each—they gleamed like topaz eyes, casting a pale gold 
reflection on the water. Up the estuary they sailed, 
past the foam of the Bar into the little harbour. 

Then the rapturous glow died out of Deirdre’s green 
eyes, like the sudden quenching of a flame. 

‘‘It’s over”—she said in a small, flat voice. “Ended 
—^the sunset and—our month.” 

One little month—strange that it should have held 
such a wide gamut of happiness and misery! 

The girl suddenly turned to Guy with fierce, passion¬ 
ate rebellion. “Why should all things lovely come to 
an end? Oh, it’s cruel—cruel! I’m sick —sick of 
being brave, and you are too, Guy. You know you 
are.” 

Up on the hill the heather smelt faintly sweet, 
mingled with the unobtrusive, clean tang of the 
bracken. ... 

She came closer to him—laid a hand on his arm. 
Through the dusk her face was moon-pale between 
the soft blackness of her hair. She looked oddly young 
and pathetic with her wet lashes, her childish mouth. 

“You are going to Venice, are you not?” 

“I start to-morrow.” He could not trust himself 
to say much—the glamour of the night was tingling 
in his veins. He did not dare look down into the 
eyes raised to his—he loved her—ah, dear Lord, he 
loved her—and to-morrow he would be gone. 

And Deirdre looked at him through drooping lashes. 
The sea was soughing plaintively, running into the 
ravines and gullies of the rocks with a peculiar sighing, 


“LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH” 387 


gurgling sound. Deirdre listened for a moment, then 
turned to Guy again. He was sitting with his arms 
round his hunched-up, long young legs. All her love 
rushed into her eyes for a second as she looked at him. 
She felt an overwhelming tenderness, and something 
else which she could not quite define—something fierce 
—passionate—vaguely evil. . . . 

“You are going—to-morrow,” she repeated slowly. 

“Yes.” 

That vague something suddenly leapt from its lurk¬ 
ing shadow—iblazed forth in its terrifying power— 
smiled with its wicked scarlet mouth—beckoned and 
whispered and beguiled. Deirdre knew its name—it 
was called Temptation. . . . 

Before, when it stirred in her she had not fully 
realized what it was. Now she knew what it was calling 
to her to do, and for a minute sick horror gripped her. 
Then Temptation was too strong—it conquered, tramp¬ 
ling Honour and Courage and Self-Sacrifice beneath 
its soiled feet. . . . 

“Take me with you to-morrow,” said Deirdre Lis- 
carney quietly. 

There was a minute’s tense silence, then Guy sprang 
to his feet, and stood looking down at her. 

“You don’t know v/hat you’re saying,” he said 
roughly. 

Deirdre got up too. She went up to him and laid 
her hands on his shoulders, looking him straight in the 
eyes. 

“I know perfectly well,” she said. “This is the 
crisis—I felt it coming. 


388 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


'‘Guy, I am coming with you to-morrow. You 
must take me! I can’t fight any longer—I’m not 
going to. By nature I’m more of a coward than a 
fighter, Guy.” 

She smiled a little at her own weakness. Guy was 
staring down at the moving topaz eyes of the fishing- 
smacks that broidered the dim aquamarine water. 
Deirdre, following his gaze, saw a mass of something 
dark floating on the ripples, half submerged, at the 
mercy of wind and tide. . . . 

"Driftwood,” she said, pointing to it. 

"That’s you and I and Terence—^human driftwood, 
tossing along on the sea of Fate. It’s a cruel sea, Guy. 
It seems to have no mercy—no way of escape. The 
currents are going to part us at last—^you will be 
swept on one way—Terence and I another. I hate 
the sea—I hate it! It’s cruel—it wants to suck you 
down! Look!” 

Where the driftwood had been was only a stretch 
of heaving sea—^the driftwood had gone. 

"How cruel it is—how cruel and powerful! It 
frightens me—I want to escape it, Guy, take me with 
you to-morrow!” 

She came and leant against his shoulder—^he could 
feet the softness of her hair against his lips. 

"Terence will forget—^he’s got Greyfriars to love—^ 
we’ve only got each other. I don’t care what happens 
—we belong! You love me, don’t you? I love you 
more than anything in the world. You shall take me 
with you, Guy.” 

He closed his eyes. For a minute Temptation had 


“LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH” 389 


come to him also, twining her soft arms round him, 
smiling her evil smile. . . . 

Then quite suddenly he thought of Terence Lis- 
carney. The gay eyes, the lovable ingenuousness, 
the friendship of him. Terence, the well-beloved, 
hero and friend of Winchester and 'Varsity days. 

“Will you take me ?” asked Deirdre softly. 

Guy drew a long breath. He looked at her for a 
minute, and no one ever knew except himself and 
God the fight it was to answer as he did. 

“No,” said Guy Wyndham. 

There was silence for a second or two. Over the 
sea the moon had risen. It soared high in the heavens, 
dimming the lustre of the stars, and turning the water 
to a sheet of cold, passionless silver. 

A solitary gull, skimming with a flash of white 
wings over the ripples, gave a sudden weird chuckle of 
coarse laughter. 

And Guy, seeing the sudden anguished shame in 
Deirdre’s eyes, said gently: 

“Sweetheart, I want to tell you a story. Will you 
listen ?” 

“Yes,” she said very low. He put his arm round 
her, and kept it like that all the time he was speak¬ 
ing. 

“Once upon a time there lived a sort of Prince- 
fellow—the most splendid Prince you ever heard of. 
He was kind and generous-hearted and gentle to every¬ 
one. This Prince had a humble Knight in his train— 
not a splendid fellow like himself, but rather a poor 


390 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


sort of Knight, who, nevertheless, loved the Prince 
with all his heart and soul. One day the Prince fell 
in love with a beautiful lady—they were married. The 
Knight had been away in foreign lands, and he came 
back to find that his Prince’s bride was a lady to whom 
he had dared to raise his eyes, years before. To his 
mingled horror and joy he found that the lady returned 
his love—^the Prince, of course, was too splendid even 
to dream of suspecting either his beloved Lady, or his 
favourite Knight. In his innocence he gave his wife 
into the Knight’s care while he was away. He trusted 
them both—nothing in the world could shake his great 
faith. He loved the beautiful Lady—he loved the 
poor Knight. And he trusted in them. Deirdre, don’t 
you see how utterly impossible it was for them, in theic 
own selfish love, to ruin that trust? It would have 
broken the Prince’s splendid heart. ...” 

Neither spoke for some minutes. They stood very 
close together, secure in a sort of understanding 
silence. 

Far out beyond the churning Bar the sea lay gently 
heaving, glistening and shimmering like the skin of 
a snake, until it melted and merged into the dim 
hydrangea blue of the horizon. From a cottage in 
the valley came the sound of a man’s voice, upraised 
in some sea chanty. Floating on the still air it lost any 
burred harshness, and became invested with a certain 
melancholy sweetness. 

Then Deirdre looked at Guy with clear eyes, in 
which shone the light of something greater and finer 
than even Love. 


“LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH” 


391 


“Thank you, Guy dear.” 

“You do see now, don’t you darling?” 

“I am horribly ashamed that I didn’t see before. For¬ 
give me, Guy.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive, my dear.” 

They faced each other in the moonlight, simply and 
bravely. 

“So this is good-bye. To-morrow you go to Venice.” 

“And you go back to Terry, dear. When you spoke 
of there being no escape from the sea of Fate, you 
were wrong. There is a way of escape for you—a 
harbour where no wave can touch or harm you.” 

“And that harbour is-?” 

“Terry’s love.” 

“I know”—said Deirdre very low. 

Guy went on, speaking gently, as one would to a 
child. 

“Make him as happy as you can, darling. He’s 
worth all the love you are going to give him. He’s 
white all through, is Terry—a very splendid Prince 
indeed. Make him very happy, Deirdre.” 

Deirdre suddenly flung out her hands in a little 
gesture of triumph. 

“This is the end, but nothing can rob us of one 
thing—we’ve loved each other.” 

“Yes, we’ve loved. . . .” 

For a minute they stood looking at each other, brave¬ 
eyed. Then suddenly their arms were round one 
another. In that one fleeting second Deirdre felt 
that they had entered at last the Palace Beautiful, which 
is called Courage. They seemed to have scaled to- 



392 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


gether the topmost peak of the shining mountains of 
Love, and walked in glory on the “heights and rose-lit 
pinnacles/’ 

“Good-bye, Dear.” 

“Good-bye, Guy.” 

The little white dog came bustling up. Deirdre 
picked him up and tucked him under her arm, then 
turned again to Guy. She said nothing, only smiled 
at him with brave lips, kissed him once more, and then 
was gone through the night. 

The boy was left alone to the moonlight, the sough¬ 
ing of the sea, and the lonely splendour of 
fortitude. . . . 

II 

All night Guy Wyndham had not slept. He had 
lain staring into the darkness, hands behind his head, 
thinking of Deirdre, wondering if she was awake 
too, threshing out the problem of how happiness could 
be ensured for her and Terence. 

“If I were out of the way,” he muttered to him¬ 
self—“it would be all right. Terence would make 
her happy—^who wouldn’t be happy with a fine fellow 
like Terry? She must be happy-” 

He tossed and turned in the hot darkness, flinging 
off the bed-clothes, ruflling his black hair with nervy 
fingers. 

“If I were out of the way——” 

That was the only coherent note in the seething 
confusion of his thoughts. He never thought of him- 




“LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH’’ 


393 


self once—only of Terence and Deirdre—Terence and 
Deirdre- 

“It’s no use going to Venice—she’ll know where I 
am. She might even leave Terence and come to me, 
if things got too much for her. It’s no use going 
anywhere abroad. While I’m alive she’ll never be 
happy—never love Terence properly. If I were 
dead-” 

Now the thought took shape and form and leapt 
out from its shadowy corner into the foreground of 
his brain. 

“If I were dead-” 

He sat up in bed, and elapsed his hunched-up legs 
round with long young arms, staring at the glimmering 
square of his window with bright eyes. 

“It would be different if I were dead—I’d only 
be a memory to her. She wouldn’t forget, but one 
can’t love a memory as much as a living man. She’d 
be happy then—she’d get to love Terry as I want her 
to. And Terry would be happy-” 

His eyes were very bright—his mouth was smiling 

“If I were dead—it would be easy. . . .” 

It was getting on for dawn. Birds were beginning 
to stir in the ivy outside his window. Slowly it grew 
lighter—a faint rosy flush began to tinge the eastern 
sky. 

The boy got out of bed, hastily dressed in his every¬ 
day kit of flannels and college blazer. His bathing suit 
lay on a chair—every morning since he had come he 
had got up early and gone for a bathe. He picked it 







394 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


up, rolled it up in a towel, and went softly downstairs 
through the silent house. 

The sun had just risen, and was flooding the world 
with glory—“It’s good to be alive!” thought Guy, 
and sighed a little to himself. A drowsy-eyed little 
kitchen-maid was just going downstairs, and gave 
him a soft “Gude daay, zur.” 

“Off for my morning bathe!” he told her, smiling, 
went on through the dark little hall, and let himself 
out into the garden of the Drake Arms. All the 
stocks and the marguerites, the salmon-pink gladioli 
and spiky dahlias, looked fresh and immaculate after 
their bath of dew, like little girls who have just had 
their faces washed. The fuchsia bush had had its hair 
combed by the wind, and was shaking out dangling 
purple love-locks. 

Guy walked down the steps on to the jetty, where 
the ferryman and his little yellow dog were just pre¬ 
paring to go mackereling in a little motor-boat. 

“Goin’ baathin’, zur? Ah’ll take you ’cross t’other 
saide, if you laike. Where be yu goin’?” 

“Gara Rock Cove, Ben.” 

“Gara Rock? In you get, zur—ah’ll drop you there 
wi’ pleasure.” 

Guy got in—the ferryman bent and started the en¬ 
gine, and the sturdy little motor-boat chugged out of 
the little harbour, down the estuary. 

“Gran’ mornin’, zur.” 

“Absolutely topping.” 

Here was a chance to be clever, and cover up all 
the traces which Deirdre must never know. It must 


“LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH" 395 


appear to be a total accident—no shadow should mar 
the happiness he was planning for her. 

“I shall be sorry to leave Purse Pomeroy.” 

“You goin’, zur?" 

“To-day, Ben. In a few days I shall be in Venice." 

“Eh, tu be suure! Well, mebbe yu’ll be baack 
soon, zur." 

“Oh, rather—next summer, I hope.” 

That was good—the ferryman would report their 
conversation afterwards. And Deirdre would never 
know—^that was good—very good- 

“Fine morning for a bathe." 

“An' a fine place tu bathe from—Gara Rock, though 
th’ current is maighty swift paast the rocks." 

“Oh, Pm a strong swimmer," said Guy lightly. 
“Here we are. Thanks for the lift, Ben." 

He got up and jumped neatly on to the rocks, then 
gave the motor-boat a push out. 

“Good-luck for the mackereling, Ben!" 

“The saame to yu, zur, 'Ope you enjoy your 
swim I" 

The irony of it nearly made Guy laugh. He watched 
the little motor-boat out of sight, then went into one 
of the numerous caves and undressed- 

So far he had been clever—^very clever. He had 
put all his clothes on a rock, neatly folded, as if 
waiting for him to don them again. He came out 
into the sunshine, felt it warm on his bare head and 
arms and legs-- 

There was nothing to indicate— nothing —that it was 
not more than an unfortunate accident- 




396 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Guy stood looking at the sea. It lay gently heaving 
—a smooth stretch of cold, passionless aquamarine, 
merging into dim drifts of pale turquoise, laced with 
delicate ruffles of white foam. Beyond the rocks the 
currents ran swiftly, ready to suck an unsuspecting 
bather to his doom. . . . 

He started to wade in, then stopped abruptly. He 
could not feel the water creep up inch by inch, could 
not throw up his arms and let the currents drag him 
down- 

It would be too ghastly. Looking up he caught 
sight of that jutting-out tongue of rock, hanging high 
above the water, from which he had dived the day 
before- 

A-ah! The slightest miscalculation of time or spring 
would dash a man swiftly to death- 

Guy started climbing the rocks, edged his way out 
to the very end of that cruel ledge of rock. For 
several minutes he stood there, looking down at 
the heaving green water beneath him. He thought 
of Deirdre and Terence, finding happiness together 

Deirdre and Terence- 

Guy raised his hands above his head. The sun¬ 
shine was hot on his hair. 

Deirdre—the green eyes of Deirdre- 

He poised for the dive. The slightest miscalcula¬ 
tion of time or spring—thinking of Deirdre, he 
dived. ... 

A swift rush through the air—then the sunlight 
blotted out—darkness—and splendour. . . , 








“LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH’’ 


397 


III 

Deirdre was in the little sitting-room of Cliff Cot¬ 
tage, trying to eat some breakfast, when she heard 
footsteps on the path outside—heavy, rather halting 
footsteps. 

Aimlessly she wondered who it was. There was a 
knock at the front door—^the Sealyham growled. Mrs. 
Dean went bustling out to open it. Deirdre heard hk 
give a small, stifled scream, and then there was the 
murmur of voices—the sitting-room door flung open 
—Ben, the ferryman and a young fisherman stood 

there with a still, slight figure in their arms- 

Guy- 

Guy - 

Deirdre got up from the table. She crossed over and 
stared at that calm, sleeping face. There was a bruise 
on his temples, like a mauve stain. He looked like a 
beautiful young wood-god felled to earth. . . . 

Deirdre forced her stiff lips to say—“Dead?” 

The ferryman nodded. There was evident pity 
in his keen blue eyes. “Ah took ’im over tu Gara 
for ’is baathe. Ah caame back tu tell ’im thaat ah’d 
taake ’im ’ome again afterwards. As ah caame round 
th’ Point there ’e was, just going’ tu dive off them 

rocks, an’—’e must a’ slipped or summat-” 

Suddenly Deirdre remembered her terror the day 
before when he had dived off that very rock—the 

way he had shot through the air like a swift arrow- 

The men lowered their burden on to the couch. The 
young fisherman left the room, and Ben spoke. 





398 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


‘*Ah thought yu’d laike me tu bring 'im here, Miss, 
^stead o’ th’ Drake Arrms—you bein’ his friend. No 
one knows yet ’cept me an’ a mate o’ mine—ah brought 
’im in th’ motor-boat, and carried ’im up the cliff path. 
My mate ’elped me. An’ we’ll keep our mouths shut, 
yu may be shore—yu doan’t warnt ’em all nosin’ 
round ’ere yet awhile.” 

“Thank you, Ben. I’ll never forget what you’ve 
done,” said Deirdre, wondering dully at her own calm. 

The fisherman took her hand between his two strong 
brown ones. “Now, doan’t taake on, will you, Missie 
dear ? Ah’ve found that God never does anythin’ like 
this wi’out haaving a reason o’ some sorrt. Yu may not 
see it at first, but it’s shore tu be there, all th’ saame. 
’Es a durn logical body, is th’ Almightly, Missie.” 

And Ben, having squeezed her hand hard, turned 
and went. Deirdre shut the sitting-room door after 
him. She came back and sat dov/n on the edge of 
the couch. For a moment or two she looked down 
at the boy’s still, beautiful face. His faunish mouth 
was smiling as if he was in the middle of a very happy 
dream. 

Deirdre looked at him silently. She did not want 
to cry—what was the use of noisy grief, when nothing 
would ever bring the light into those closed eyes again, 
or renew the leaping life in those long young limbs? 

Guy was dead—Guy, so much the young god in his 
beauty and radiance that it had seemed impossible to 
her that he should ever grow old or die. 

She had been right—he would never grow old. Age 
could not touch him now, or grief, or evil. He would 


‘‘LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH” 


399 


be for ever young—immortal—at one with things un¬ 
dying—the night, and the winds, and clouds— 
Immortal- 

Truly he was blest, . . . 

She noticed that he was still in his bathing suit, but 
Ben had wrapped a great coat round him. His thick 
black hair was glistening with water. Deirdre tried 
to dry it a little with her handkerchief. She kissed his 
forehead, where the bruise marred the brown skin— 
the chill of it smote her. It hurt her absurdly that Guy 
should be so cold—she slipped her warm arms round 
him and held him close for a minute. “Good-bye, my 
darling.” 

She kissed his smiling mouth. 

“Good-'bye-” 

The Sealyham, who had been a disturbed spectator 
of all this, suddenly growled, and cocked his ears. 
Someone else was coming up the path, walking very 
fast, knocking sharply on the front door. 

Voices in the hall, hurried footsteps, the door of 
the room flung open and shut again. Terence stood 
there looking at her across the still figure on the 
couch—Terence with his sleek fair head, his broad 
shoulders—Terence ... it seemed rather funny that 
he should be there. Beyond that, Deirdre felt no 
surprise. 

“I thought you were at Deauville,” she said, quite 
naturally. 

He did not answer, but came forward and bent over 
Guy's quiet figure. 

“He—I—my God, he's not dead?’* It is character- 




400 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


istic of Terence Liscarney that he thought first, not of 
himself, but of his friend- 

'‘This morning—an accident-” 

“Dead? Jingle dead? Oh, rotT’ 

Terence’s voice was angry. He bent over and gently 
shook Guy’s shoulder. “Jingle! Jingle, old man! I 
say, don’t rag any longer^—Jingle-” 

He straightened up, and stared at Deirdre with 
furious blue eyes. 

“I don’t believe it! Jingle isn’t dead—he can’t be 
—old Jingle!” 

His voice suddenly faltered and broke. He looked 
at Deirdre piteously, then somehow stumbled to the 
wall, leant against it with his face hidden, and quite 
frankly, quite unashamedly, began to cry like a child. 

Deirdre went over to him, and stood silently strok¬ 
ing his shoulder. She did not attempt either consola¬ 
tion or explanation. Presently Terry lifted his head. 
He was perfectly composed now, but his smooth boy’s 
face was twisted and haggard and pitifully old. 

He made a gesture at the still figure on the couch. 

“You loved him?” 

“Yes,” said Deirdre quietly. 

A tiny spasm of pain contracted Liscamey’s face 
for a second. 

Then he asked slowly: 

“How long has this been going on?” 

“Ever since I met him at the Opera.” 

There was a moment’s silence. Terence looked at 
her wistfully. “I wish you’d told me, Deirdre. I 
hate to think that you didn’t. It would have been so 





“LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH 


401 


much easier—I’d have understood—set you free at 


For the first time tears came into Deirdre’s eyes.. 

“Why have you always been so good to me, Terry?” 

“Because I loved you-” 

“Loved”—the past tense hurt Deirdre somehow, 
although she knew it to be absurd. Of course he 
could not love her now that he knew—she had for¬ 
feited every claim to his love and trust- 

“So my mother was right?” said Terence quietly— 
“You were down here with—with him?” 

“I was coming back to you to-day,” said Deirdre. 

Terence turned on her sharply. She saw that he 
did not believe her. 

“I am telling you the truth, Terry. My luggage is 
all waiting to go to the station, labelled to London. I 
did not know you were back—I was going to the 
Clement Street house to see that it was all ready for 
your—your welcome home.” 

“After being with him all the month?” said Lis- 
carney. There was no trace of a sneer in his voice, 
yet Deirdre flushed scarlet. 

“Terence, your mother has given you a wrong idea 
of things. I can explain if you—if you’ll listen for 
a while.” 

Terence had walked over to the window, and was 
standing looking out at the sunny garden. He nodded 
curtly, without looking at her. 

Deirdre began perfectly simply, without a trace of 
theatrical emotion. 

“Just before I came down here Guy and I agreed 





402 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


never to see each other again. People were talking— 
saying things which were utter lies, but which would 
have hurt you, Terry, if you had heard them. Guy 
came down to Purse Pomeroy a few days later to ask 
if we couldn’t be friends, anyway, if nothing else. I 
said that it was impossible. I asked him if he wouldn’t 
stay at Purse Pomeroy the month I was here, so that 
we could have a scrap of happiness together before he 
went away for good. Guy didn’t want to—he thought 
it would be disloyal to you. 

“I made him stop. I want you to understand, Terry, 
that it was all my fault—every scrap of it.” 

She looked at the tall figure by the window. He 
gave no word or sign, so she went on. 

“We had our month—we were very happy. Last 
night when we said good-bye, I lost my head com¬ 
pletely. I asked him to take me with him when he 
left for Venice to-day. If he had agreed, I would 
have gone with him. But Guy wouldn’t. He showed 
me what a terrible thing I was going to do, and how 
dreadfully it would hurt you. I felt so horribly 
ashamed. So you see, Terry, that Guy was not to 
blame in any way. He behaved splendidly all the time 
—it was I who was such a—a coward.” 

Deirdre forced herself to go on. 

“We said good-bye last night. To-day Guy was 
going to Venice—I was coming back to you, to make 
you happy, Terry, to—^to try and make up to you for 
all the love you’ve given me.” 

Silence. No word or movement from Terry. Deir¬ 
dre looked at him piteously. She moistened her dry 


LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH 


403 


lips, and went on bravely. No one would have sus¬ 
pected from her voice that her mouth was all broken 
up with quivering. 

“Of course I realize that it’s impossible now. I— 
you needn’t try to tell me. Why should you love me 
any more ? I’ve cheated you—and you trusted me. I 
would have left you altogether if it hadn’t been for 
Guy. No wonder you hate me.” 

If only he would say something—turn and look at 
her—strike her—anything but keep that cold, aloof 
silence. She felt that even his silence was charged 
with loathing. 

“I won’t worry you again, Terry. I shall go away— 
go to Mother at Mentone for a while. But I’ll keep 
out of your way—you needn’t see me again. We can 
get a separation at once.” 

Deirdre moved towards the door. She looked at 
the still figure on the couch, the tall, broad-shouldered 
figure of Terence, silhouetted against the window. 
The Sealyham was licking his hand, but he did not even 
stir. 

“I won’t ask you to forgive me,” said Deirdre. 
“Because I know it’s impossible. Even your generos¬ 
ity can’t stretch as far.” 

She opened the door, hesitated, then looked back 
once more. 

“I’m sorry—^more sorry than words can say, that 
I’ve ruined your life so, Terence. Yours and Guy’s 
—two beautiful lives that I’ve spoilt.” 

Her voice broke a little in spite of herself. 

“Good-bye, Terence,’^ she said, and turned to go out. 


404 


THE SHORELESS SEA 


Courage—until you get out of the room . . . hold 
your head high . . . courage. . . . 

Then Terence said one word very softly- 

‘‘Deirdre!’^ 

Slowly, falteringly, she turned. 

Across the room Terence Liscarney’s arms were 
held out to her. ... 


THE END 


Jl Selection from the 
Catalogue of 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 


Complete Catalogues sent 
on application 


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Georgian Stories 1922 


The list of authors who contribute to this first 
volume is a distinguished one. Twenty-two 
stories by notable younger writers who began to 
publish in the Georgian period. 


CONTENTS 


Slacy Aumonier 
J. D. Beresford 
Algernon Blackwood 
Mary Butts 
Norman Daeey 

E. M. Forster 
W, L. George 

Basil Macdonald Hastings 
Violet Hunt 

F. Tennyson Jesse 
Sheila Kaye-Smith 
D. H. Lawrence 
Arnold Lunn 
Katherine Mansfield 
W. Somerset Maugham 
Ethel Colburn Mayne 
Elinor Mordaunt 
Oliver Onions 
Roland Pertwee 
Lennox Robinson 
May Sinclair 

Alec Waugh 


The Beautiful Merciless Lady 

The Criminal 

The Tryst 

Speed the Plough 

The First Violin 

Mr. Andrews 

Perez 

George’s Gender 
The Coach 

The Man with Two Mouths 
Mrs. Adis 

The Shadow in the Rose Garden 

A Scrap of Paper 

Pictures 

Rain 

Lovells Meeting 
The Perfect Wife 
10 

Sentimental Rubbish 
A Pair of Muddy Shoes 
The Bambino 
The Intruder 


New York 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons London 






Recent Fiction of Importance . 

RECOMPENSE By Robert Keable 

A tale of love and striving which is the sequel to the same 
author’s most celebrated work Simon Called Peter’' 

THE GARDEN OF PERIL 

By Cynthia Stockley 

A writer who has made the Seldt of South Africa distinctly 
her own tells the thrilling story of Peril Kelly and her garden. 

WHIRLWIND By C. M. Hardinge 

A distinctly unusual book of a beautiful and fascinating woman 
and her temptations and trials. She becomes a great violinist, 
a motion picture actress, a famous beauty. All goes well until 
she meets at Monte Carlo “the Toreador” who is too strong 
for her, and changes her whole life. 

DAN BARRY’S DAUGHTER By Max Brand 

The daughter of the heroic Untamed grows into womanhood to 
find her soul torn by a struggle between two heritages. The 
burning Southwest provides the background for this stimulating 
tale. 

THE FIR AND THE PALM 

By Elizabeth Bibesco 
Princess Bibesco, wife of an ambassador and daughter of a 
prime minister, writes an unusual novel against a background of 
politics and high social life. “It is more the story of love than 
of one woman’s love.” 

WITHOUT GLOVES By James B. Hendryx 

A young man who has failed in the city goes into the lumber 
camps of the North and there finds himself and the one woman 
in the world. The struggle is not an easy one. It is full of peril, 
of adventure and of final success. 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK 


EONDON 





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